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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6185-0.txt b/6185-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6ef3910 --- /dev/null +++ b/6185-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10513 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Romany of the Snows, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Romany of the Snows + Being A Continuation Of The Personal Histories Of “Pierre And His + People” And The Last Existing Records Of Pretty Pierre + + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: November 17, 2006 [EBook #6185] +Last Updated: August 26, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMANY OF THE SNOWS *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS, Complete + +BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF “PIERRE AND HIS +PEOPLE” AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE + + +By Gilbert Parker + + + CONTENTS + + Volume 1. + ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS + A LOVELY BULLY + THE FILIBUSTER + THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING + + Volume 2. + MALACHI + THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE + THE RED PATROL + THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN + AT BAMBER’S BOOM + + Volume 3. + THE BRIDGE HOUSE + THE EPAULETTES + THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER + THE FINDING OF FINGALL + THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE + + Volume 4. + LITTLE BABICHE + AT POINT O’ BUGLES + THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA + THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS + THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR + + Volume 5. + THE CRUISE OF THE “NINETY-NINE” + A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + THE PLUNDERER + + + + + To SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE. + + MY DEAR SIR WILLIAM, + + To the public it will seem fitting that these new tales of “Pierre + and His People” should be inscribed to one whose notable career is + inseparably associated with the life and development of the Far + North. + + But there is a deeper and more personal significance in this + dedication, for some of the stories were begotten in late gossip by + your fireside; and furthermore, my little book is given a kind of + distinction, in having on its fore-page the name of one well known + as a connoisseur of art and a lover of literature. + + Believe me, + + DEAR SIR WILLIAM, + + Sincerely yours, + + GILBERT PARKER. + + 7 PARK PLACE. + ST. JAMES’S. + LONDON. S. W. + + + +INTRODUCTION + +It can hardly be said that there were two series of Pierre stories. +There never was but one series, in fact. Pierre moved through all the +thirty-nine stories of Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows +without any thought on my part of putting him out of existence in one +series and bringing him to life again in another. The publication of +the stories was continuous, and at the time that Pierre and His People +appeared several of those which came between the covers of A Romany of +the Snows were passing through the pages of magazines in England and +America. All of the thirty-nine stories might have appeared in one +volume under the title of Pierre and His People, but they were published +in two volumes with different titles in England, and in three volumes +in America, simply because there was enough material for the two and the +three volumes. In America The Adventurer of the North was broken up into +two volumes at the urgent request of my then publishers, Messrs. Stone & +Kimball, who had the gift of producing beautiful books, but perhaps had +not the same gift of business. These two American volumes succeeding +Pierre were published under the title of An Adventurer of the North and +A Romany of the Snows respectively. Now, the latter title, A Romany of +the Snows, was that which I originally chose for the volume published +in England as An Adventurer of the North. I was persuaded to reject the +title, A Romany of the Snows, by my English publisher, and I have +never forgiven myself since for being so weak. If a publisher had the +infallible instinct for these things he would not be a publisher--he +would be an author; and though an author may make mistakes like +everybody else, the average of his hits will be far higher than the +average of his misses in such things. The title, An Adventurer of the +North, is to my mind cumbrous and rough, and difficult in the mouth. +Compare it with some of the stories within the volume itself: for +instance, The Going of the White Swan, A Lovely Bully, At Bamber’s Boom, +At Point o’ Bugles, The Pilot of Belle Amour, The Spoil of the Puma, A +Romany of the Snows, and The Finding of Fingall. There it was, however; +I made the mistake and it sticks; but the book now will be published in +this subscription edition under the title first chosen by me, A Romany +of the Snows. It really does express what Pierre was. + +Perhaps some of the stories in A Romany of the Snows have not the +sentimental simplicity of some of the earlier stories in Pierre and His +People, which take hold where a deeper and better work might not seize +the general public; but, reading these later stories after twenty years, +I feel that I was moving on steadily to a larger, firmer command of my +material, and was getting at closer grips with intimate human things. +There is some proof of what I say in the fact that one of the stories in +A Romany of the Snows, called The Going of the White Swan, appropriately +enough published originally in Scribner’s Magazine, has had an +extraordinary popularity. It has been included in the programmes of +reciters from the Murrumbidgee to the Vaal, from John O’Groat’s to +Land’s End, and is now being published as a separate volume in England +and America. It has been dramatised several times, and is more alive +to-day than it was when it was published nearly twenty years ago. Almost +the same may be said of The Three Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue. + +It has been said that, apart from the colour, form, and setting, the +incidents of these Pierre stories might have occurred anywhere. That +is true beyond a doubt, and it exactly represents my attitude of mind. +Every human passion, every incident springing out of a human passion +to-day, had its counterpart in the time of Amenhotep. The only +difference is in the setting, is in the language or dialect which is the +vehicle of expression, and in race and character, which are the media of +human idiosyncrasy. There is nothing new in anything that one may write, +except the outer and visible variation of race, character, and country, +which reincarnates the everlasting human ego and its scena. + +The atmosphere of a story or novel is what temperament is to a man. +Atmosphere cannot be created; it is not a matter of skill; it is a +matter of personality, of the power of visualisation, of feeling for +the thing which the mind sees. It has been said that my books possess +atmosphere. This has often been said when criticism has been more or +less acute upon other things; but I think that in all my experience +there has never been a critic who has not credited my books with that +quality; and I should say that Pierre and His People and A Romany of the +Snows have an atmosphere in which the beings who make the stories +live seem natural to their environment. It is this quality which gives +vitality to the characters themselves. Had I not been able to create +atmosphere which would have given naturalness to Pierre and his friends, +some of the characters, and many of the incidents, would have seemed +monstrosities--melodramatic episodes merely. The truth is, that while +the episode, which is the first essential of a short story, was always +in the very forefront of my imagination, the character or characters +in the episode meant infinitely more to me. To my mind the episode was +always the consequence of character. That almost seems a paradox; but +apart from the phenomena of nature, as possible incidents in a book, +the episodes which make what are called “human situations” are, in most +instances, the sequence of character and are incidental to the law of +the character set in motion. As I realise it now, subconsciously, my +mind and imagination were controlled by this point of view in the days +of the writing of Pierre and His People. + +In the life and adventures of Pierre and his people I came, as I think, +to a certain command of my material, without losing real sympathy with +the simple nature of things. Dexterity has its dangers, and one of its +dangers is artificiality. It is very difficult to be skilful and to ring +true. If I have not wholly succeeded in A Romany of the Snows, I think I +have not wholly failed, as the continued appeal of a few of the stories +would seem to show. + + + + +ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS + +“Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands I’ve seen along the sayshore, +and up to me half-ways I’ve been in wan, wid a double-and-twist in the +rope to pull me out; but a suckin’ sand in the open plain--aw, Trader, +aw! the like o’ that niver a bit saw I.” + +So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing was talked of in his presence. + +“Well, I tell you it’s true, and they’re not three miles from Fort +O’Glory. The Company’s--[Hudson’s Bay Company]--men don’t talk about +it--what’s the use! Travellers are few that way, and you can’t get the +Indians within miles of them. Pretty Pierre knows all about them--better +than anyone else almost. He’ll stand by me in it--eh, Pierre?” + +Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adventurer, took no notice, and was +silent for a time, intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mowley the +trapper said: “Pierre’s gone back on you, Trader. P’r’aps ye haven’t +paid him for the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me--my +treat--that’s the game!” + +“Aw, the like o’ that,” added Macavoy reproachfully. “Aw, yer tongue +to the roof o’ yer mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but that’s wid +wimmin or landlords. But, Pierre, aff another man’s bat like that--aw, +Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o’ yer pipe.” + +Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he +did so; but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting +the three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment +musingly; then he lit his cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench +where he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire as it were. + +“I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company’s post there. It was the fall of +the year, when you feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the +air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like a woman or a priest? +Mais, no. The seasons are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad; in +the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to do. This matter was in +the fall. I felt that I must move. Yet, what to do? There was the thing. +Cards, of course. But that’s only for times, not for all seasons. So I +was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse--Tophet, black as a +coal, all raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. His legs worked +like piston-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where to go or what to +do. So we used to sit at the Post loafing: in the daytime watching the +empty plains all panting for travellers, like a young bride waiting her +husband for the first time.” + +Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an unctuous spirit, and +his heart was soft for women--so soft that he never had had one on his +conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many. But +that was an amiable weakness in a strong man. “Aw, Pierre,” he +said coaxingly, “kape it down; aisy, aisy. Me heart’s goin’ like a +trip-hammer at thought av it; aw yis, aw yis, Pierre.” + +“Well, it was like that to me--all sun and a sweet sting in the air. At +night to sit and tell tales and such things; and perhaps a little brown +brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the cattle--the same old +game. Of course, there was the wife of Hilton the factor--fine, always +fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good friends, Ida and me. I had +a hand in her wedding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little girl. +We could talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she had +never guessed at evil. She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and +understand without words. A face was a book to her. + +“Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing outside the Post, when +we saw someone ride over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes. I +cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut +against the sky, that they looked very large and peculiar--there was +something in the air to magnify. They stopped for a minute on the top of +the Divide, and it seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at +the farthest north--the place of legends. But, of course, it was only a +traveller like ourselves, for in a half-hour she was with us. + +“Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not try to hide it; she +dressed so for ease. She would make a man’s heart leap in his mouth--if +he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley there.” + +Pierre’s last three words had a touch of irony, for he knew that the +Trapper had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed +that way, and a bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled +sourly; but Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his +pipe-stem luxuriously. + +“Aw now, Pierre--all me little failin’s--aw!” he protested. + +Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and, +cherishing his cigarette, presently continued: + +“She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff that she could hardly +get from her horse; and the horse too was ready to drop. Handsome enough +she looked, for all that, in man’s clothes and a peaked cap, with +a pistol in her belt. She wasn’t big built--just a feathery kind of +sapling--but she was set fair on her legs like a man, and a hand that +was as good as I have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with a +horse. Well, what was the trouble?--for I saw there was trouble. Her +eyes had a hunted look, and her nose breathed like a deer’s in the +chase. All at once, when she saw Hilton’s wife, a cry came from her and +she reached out her hands. What would women of that sort do? They were +both of a kind. They got into each other’s arms. After that there was +nothing for us men but to wait. All women are the same, and Hilton’s +wife was like the rest. She must get the secret first; then the men +should know. We had to wait an hour. Then Hilton’s wife beckoned to us. +We went inside. The girl was asleep. There was something in the touch +of Hilton’s wife like sleep itself--like music. It was her voice--that +touch. She could not speak with her tongue, but her hands and face were +words and music. Bien, there was the girl asleep, all clear of dust +and stain; and that fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet, +so quiet. Enfin, the real story--for how she slept there does not +matter--but it was good to see when we knew the story.” + +The Trapper was laughing silently to himself to hear Pierre in this +romantic mood. A woman’s hand--it was the game for a boy, not an +adventurer; for the Trapper’s only creed was that women, like deer, were +spoils for the hunter. Pierre’s keen eye noted this, but he was above +petty anger. He merely said: “If a man have an eye to see behind the +face, he understands the foolish laugh of a man, or the hand of a good +woman, and that is much. Hilton’s wife told us all. She had rode two +hundred miles from the south-west, and was making for Fort Micah, sixty +miles farther north. For what? She had loved a man against the will of +her people. There had been a feud, and Garrison--that was the lover’s +name--was the last on his own side. There was trouble at a Company’s +post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. Men say he was right to shoot him, +for a woman’s name must be safe up here. Besides, the half-breed drew +first. Well, Garrison was tried, and must go to jail for a year. At the +end of that time he would be free. The girl Janie knew the day. Word +had come to her. She made everything ready. She knew her brothers were +watching--her three brothers and two other men who had tried to get her +love. She knew also that they five would carry on the feud against the +one man. So one night she took the best horse on the ranch and started +away towards Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she got to Guidon Hill +after two days’ hard riding--enough to kill a man, and over fifty yet to +do. She was sure her brothers were on her track. But if she could get to +Fort Micah, and be married to Garrison before they came; she wanted no +more. + +“There were only two horses of use at Hilton’s Post then; all the rest +were away, or not fit for hard travel. There was my Tophet, and a lean +chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and not an ounce of loose skin on +him. There was but one way: the girl must get there. Allons, what is +the good? What is life without these things? The girl loves the man: she +must have him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and his wife and me +at the Post, and Hilton was lame from a fall, and one arm in a sling. +If the brothers followed, well, Hilton could not interfere--he was a +Company’s man; but for myself, as I said, I was hungry for adventure, +I had an ache in my blood for something. I was tingling to the toes, +my heart was thumping in my throat. All the cords of my legs were +straightening as if I was in the saddle. + +“She slept for three hours. I got the two horses saddled. Who could tell +but she might need help? I had nothing to do; I knew the shortest way to +Fort Micah, every foot--and then it is good to be ready for all things. +I told Hilton’s wife what I had done. She was glad. She made a gesture +at me as to a brother, and then began to put things in a bag for us to +carry. She had settled all how it was to be. She had told the girl. +You see, a man may be--what is it they call me?--a plunderer, and yet a +woman will trust him, comme ca!” + +“Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre; but she knew yer hand and yer tongue niver wint +agin a woman, Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw swate, swate, she was, wid a +heart--a heart, Hilton’s wife, aw yis!” + +Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. “The girl waked after three hours +with a start. Her hand caught at her heart. ‘Oh,’ she said, still +staring at us, ‘I thought that they had come!’ A little after she and +Hilton’s wife went to another room. All at once there was a sound of +horses outside, and then a knock at the door, and four men come in. They +were the girl’s hunters. + +“It was hard to tell what to do all in a minute; but I saw at once the +best thing was to act for all, and to get all the men inside the house. +So I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that I was a great man in +the Company. I ordered Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not +giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the old brown brandy, +wondering all the time what could be done. There was no sound from the +other room, though I thought I heard a door open once. Hilton played the +game well, and showed nothing when I ordered him about, and agreed word +for word with me when I said no girl had come, laughing when they told +why they were after her. More than one of them did not believe at first; +but, pshaw, what have I been doing all my life to let such fellows doubt +me? So the end of it was that I got them all inside the house. There was +one bad thing--their horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to me. +They had only rode them a few miles--they had stole or bought them at +the first ranch to the west of the Post. I could not make up my mind +what to do. But it was clear I must keep them quiet till something +shaped. + +“They were all drinking brandy when Hilton’s wife come into the room. +Her face was, mon Dieu! so innocent, so childlike. She stared at the +men; and then I told them she was deaf and dumb, and I told her why they +had come. Voila, it was beautiful--like nothing you ever saw. She shook +her head so innocent, and then told them like a child that they were +wicked to chase a girl. I could have kissed her feet. Thunder, how she +fooled them! She said, would they not search the house? She said all +through me, on her fingers and by signs. And I told them at once. But +she told me something else--that the girl had slipped out as the last +man came in, had mounted the chestnut, and would wait for me by the iron +spring, a quarter of a mile away. There was the danger that some one of +the men knew the finger-talk, so she told me this in signs mixed up with +other sentences. + +“Good! There was now but one thing--for me to get away. So I said, +laughing, to one of the men. ‘Come, and we will look after the horses, +and the others can search the place with Hilton.’ So we went out to +where the horses were tied to the railing, and led them away to the +corral. + +“Of course you will understand how I did it. I clapped a hand on his +mouth, put a pistol at his head, and gagged and tied him. Then I got my +Tophet, and away I went to the spring. The girl was waiting. There were +few words. I gripped her hand, gave her another pistol, and then we +got away on a fine moonlit trail. We had not gone a mile when I heard a +faint yell far behind. My game had been found out. There was nothing +to do but to ride for it now, and maybe to fight. But fighting was not +good; for I might be killed, and then the girl would be caught just the +same. We rode on--such a ride, the horses neck and neck, their hoofs +pounding the prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, a hell-to-split +gait. I knew they were after us, though I saw them but once on the crest +of a Divide about three miles behind. Hour after hour like that, with +ten minutes’ rest now and then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We +hardly spoke to each other; but, nom de Dieu! my heart was warm to this +girl who had rode a hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours. Just +before dawn, when I was beginning to think that we should easy win +the race if the girl could but hold out, if it did not kill her, the +chestnut struck a leg into the crack of the prairie, and horse and girl +spilt on the ground together. She could hardly move, she was so weak, +and her face was like death. I put a pistol to the chestnut’s head, and +ended it. The girl stooped and kissed the poor beast’s neck, but spoke +nothing. As I helped her on my Tophet I put my lips to the sleeve of her +dress. Mother of Heaven! what could a man do--she was so dam’ brave. + +“Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at the swell of the prairie over +the Jumping Sandhills. They lay quiet and shining in the green-brown +plain; but I knew that there was a churn beneath which could set those +swells of sand in motion, and make glory-to-God of an army. Who can tell +what it is? A flood under the surface, a tidal river-what? No man knows. +But they are sea monsters on the land. Every morning at sunrise they +begin to eddy and roll--and who ever saw a stranger sight? Bien, I +looked back. There were those four pirates coming on, about three miles +away. What was there to do? The girl and myself on my blown horse were +too much. Then a great idea come to me. I must reach and cross the +Jumping Sandhills before sunrise. It was one deadly chance. + +“When we got to the edge of the sand they were almost a mile behind. I +was all sick to my teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the silt. Sacre, +how I watched the dawn! Slow, slow, we dragged over that velvet powder. +As we reached the farther side I could feel it was beginning to move. +The sun was showing like the lid of an eye along the plain. I looked +back. All four horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards us. By the +time we touched the brown-green prairie on the farther side the sand was +rolling behind us. The girl had not looked back. She seemed too dazed. +I jumped from the horse, and told her that she must push on alone to the +Fort, that Tophet could not carry both, that I should be in no danger. +She looked at me so deep--ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped and kissed +me between the eyes--I have never forgot. I struck Tophet, and she was +gone to her happiness; for before ‘lights out!’ she reached the Fort and +her lover’s arms. + +“But I stood looking back on the Jumping Sandhills. So, was there ever +a sight like that--those hills gone like a smelting-floor, the sunrise +spotting it with rose and yellow, and three horses and their riders +fighting what cannot be fought?--What could I do? They would have got +the girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led them across, and they +would have killed me if they could. Only one cried out, and then but +once, in a long shriek. But after, all three were quiet as they fought, +until they were gone where no man could see, where none cries out so +we can hear. The last thing I saw was a hand stretching up out of the +sands.” + +There was a long pause, painful to bear. The Trader sat with eyes fixed +humbly as a dog’s on Pierre. At last Macavoy said: “She kissed ye, +Pierre, aw yis, she did that! Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her +now, Pierre?” + +But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer. + + + + +A LOVELY BULLY + +He was seven feet and fat. He came to Fort O’Angel at Hudson’s Bay, an +immense slip of a lad, very much in the way, fond of horses, a wonderful +hand at wrestling, pretending a horrible temper, threatening tragedies +for all who differed from him, making the Fort quake with his rich +roar, and playing the game of bully with a fine simplicity. In winter he +fattened, in summer he sweated, at all times he ate eloquently. + +It was a picture to see him with the undercut of a haunch of deer or +buffalo, or with a whole prairie-fowl on his plate, his eyes measuring +it shrewdly, his coat and waistcoat open, and a clear space about +him--for he needed room to stretch his mighty limbs, and his necessity +was recognised by all. + +Occasionally he pretended to great ferocity, but scowl he ever so much, +a laugh kept idling in his irregular bushy beard, which lifted about his +face in the wind like a mane, or made a kind of underbrush through which +his blunt fingers ran at hide-and-seek. + +He was Irish, and his name was Macavoy. In later days, when Fort O’Angel +was invaded by settlers, he had his time of greatest importance. + +He had been useful to the Chief Trader at the Fort in the early days, +and having the run of the Fort and the reach of his knife, was little +likely to discontinue his adherence. But he ate and drank with all the +dwellers at the Post, and abused all impartially. “Malcolm,” said he to +the Trader, “Malcolm, me glutton o’ the H.B.C., that wants the Far North +for your footstool--Malcolm, you villain, it’s me grief that I know you, +and me thumb to me nose in token.” Wiley and Hatchett, the principal +settlers, he abused right and left, and said, “Wasn’t there land in the +East and West, that you steal the country God made for honest men--you +robbers o’ the wide world! Me tooth on the Book, and I tell you what, +it’s only me charity that kapes me from spoilin’ ye. For a wink of me +eye, an’ away you’d go, leaving your tails behind you--and pass that +shoulder of bear, you pirates, till I come to it sideways, like a hog to +war.” + +He was even less sympathetic with Bareback the chief and his braves. +“Sons o’ Anak y’are; here today and away to-morrow, like the clods of +the valley--and that’s your portion, Bareback. It’s the word o’ the +Pentytook--in pieces you go, like a potter’s vessel. Don’t shrug your +shoulders at me, Bareback, you pig, or you’ll think that Ballzeboob’s +loose on the mat. But take a sup o’ this whisky, while you swear wid +your hand on your chest, ‘Amin’ to the words o’ Tim Macavoy.” + +Beside Macavoy, Pierre, the notorious, was a child in height. Up to +the time of the half-breed’s coming the Irishman had been the most +outstanding man at Fort O’Angel, and was sure of a good-natured homage, +acknowledged by him with a jovial tyranny. + +Pierre put a flea in his ear. He was pensively indifferent to him even +in his most royal moments. He guessed the way to bring down the gusto +and pride of this Goliath, but, for a purpose, he took his own time, +nodding indolently to Macavoy when he met him, but avoiding talk with +him. + +Among the Indian maidens Macavoy was like a king or khan; for they count +much on bulk and beauty, and he answered to their standards--especially +to Wonta’s. It was a sight to see him of a summer day, sitting in the +shade of a pine, his shirt open, showing his firm brawny chest, his arms +bare, his face shining with perspiration, his big voice gurgling in +his beard, his eyes rolling amiably upon the maidens as they passed or +gathered near demurely, while he declaimed of mighty deeds in patois or +Chinook to the braves. + +Pierre’s humour was of the quietest, most subterranean kind. He knew +that Macavoy had not an evil hair in his head; that vanity was his +greatest weakness, and that through him there never would have been +more half-breed population. There was a tradition that he had a wife +somewhere--based upon wild words he had once said when under the +influence of bad liquor; but he had roared his accuser the lie when the +thing was imputed to him. + +At Fort Ste. Anne Pierre had known an old woman, by name of Kitty +Whelan, whose character was all tatters. She had told him that many +years agone she had had a broth of a lad for a husband; but because of +a sharp word or two across the fire, and the toss of a handful of +furniture, he had left her, and she had seen no more of him. “Tall, like +a chimney he was,” said she, “and a chest like a wall, so broad, and +a voice like a huntsman’s horn, though only a b’y, an’ no hair an his +face; an’ little I know whether he is dead or alive; but dead belike, +for he’s sure to come rap agin’ somethin’ that’d kill him; for he, the +darlin’, was that aisy and gentle, he wouldn’t pull his fightin’ iron +till he had death in his ribs.” + +Pierre had drawn from her that the name of this man whom she had cajoled +into a marriage (being herself twenty years older), and driven to +deserting her afterwards, was Tim Macavoy. She had married Mr. Whelan on +the assumption that Macavoy was dead. But Mr. Whelan had not the nerve +to desert her, and so he departed this life, very loudly lamented by +Mrs. Whelan, who had changed her name with no right to do so. With his +going her mind dwelt greatly upon the virtues of her mighty vanished +Tim: and ill would it be for Tim if she found him. + +Pierre had travelled to Fort O’Angel almost wholly because he had Tim +Macavoy in his mind: in it Mrs. Whelan had only an incidental part; his +plans journeyed beyond her and her lost consort. He was determined on +an expedition to capture Fort Comfort, which had been abandoned by the +great Company, and was now held by a great band of the Shunup Indians. + +Pierre had a taste for conquest for its own sake, though he had no +personal ambition. The love of adventure was deep in him; he adored +sport for its own sake; he had had a long range of experiences--some +discreditable--and now he had determined on a new field for his talent. + +He would establish a kingdom, and resign it. In that case he must have a +man to take his place. He chose Macavoy. + +First he must humble the giant to the earth, then make him into a great +man again, with a new kind of courage. The undoing of Macavoy seemed +a civic virtue. He had a long talk with Wonta, the Indian maiden most +admired by Macavoy. Many a time the Irishman had cast an ogling, rolling +eye on her, and had talked his loudest within her ear-shot, telling of +splendid things he had done: making himself like another Samson as to +the destruction of men, and a Hercules as to the slaying of cattle. + +Wonta had a sense of humour also, and when Pierre told her what was +required of her, she laughed with a quick little gurgle, and showed as +handsome a set of teeth as the half-breed’s; which said much for her. +She promised to do as he wished. So it chanced when Macavoy was at his +favourite seat beneath the pine, talking to a gaping audience, Wonta and +a number of Indian girls passed by. Pierre was leaning against a door +smoking, not far away. Macavoy’s voice became louder. + +“‘Stand them up wan by wan,’ says I, ‘and give me a leg loose, and a +fist free; and at that--’” + +“At that there was thunder and fire in the sky, and because the great +Macavoy blew his breath over them they withered like the leaves,” cried +Wonta, laughing; but her laugh had an edge. + +Macavoy stopped short, open-mouthed, breathing hard in his great beard. +He was astonished at Wonta’s raillery; the more so when she presently +snapped her fingers, and the other maidens, laughing, did the same. Some +of the half-breeds snapped their fingers also in sympathy, and shrugged +their shoulders. Wonta came up to him softly, patted him on the head, +and said: “Like Macavoy there is nobody. He is a great brave. He is not +afraid of a coyote, he has killed prairie-hens in numbers as pebbles by +the lakes. He has a breast like a fat ox,”--here she touched the skin of +his broad chest,--“and he will die if you do not fight him.” + +Then she drew back, as though in humble dread, and glided away with +the other maidens, Macavoy staring after her, with a blustering kind of +shame in his face. The half-breeds laughed, and, one by one, they got +up, and walked away also. Macavoy looked round: there was no one near +save Pierre, whose eye rested on him lazily. Macavoy got to his feet, +muttering. This was the first time in his experience at Fort O’Angel +that he had been bluffed--and by a girl; one for whom he had a very soft +place in his big heart. Pierre came slowly over to him. + +“I’d have it out with her,” said he. “She called you a bully and a +brag.” + +“Out with her?” cried Macavoy. “How can ye have it out wid a woman?” + +“Fight her,” said Pierre pensively. + +“Fight her? fight her? Holy smoke! How can you fight a woman?” + +“Why, what--do you--fight?” asked Pierre innocently. + +Macavoy grinned in a wild kind of fashion. “Faith, then, y’are a fool. +Bring on the divil an’ all his angels, say I, and I’ll fight thim where +I stand.” + +Pierre ran his fingers down Macavoy’s arm, and said “There’s time enough +for that. I’d begin with the five.” + +“What five, then?” + +“Her half-breed lovers: Big Eye, One Toe, Jo-John, Saucy Boy, and Limber +Legs.” + +“Her lovers? Her lovers, is it? Is there truth on y’r tongue?” + +“Go to her father’s tent at sunset, and you’ll find one or all of them +there.” + +“Oh, is that it?” said the Irishman, opening and shutting his fists. +“Then I’ll carve their hearts out, an’ ate thim wan by wan this night.” + +“Come down to Wiley’s,” said Pierre; “there’s better company there than +here.” + +Pierre had arranged many things, and had secured partners in his little +scheme for humbling the braggart. He so worked on the other’s good +nature that by the time they reached the settler’s place, Macavoy was +stretching himself with a big pride. Seated at Wiley’s table, with +Hatchett and others near, and drink going about, someone drew the giant +on to talk, and so deftly and with such apparent innocence did Pierre, +by a word here and a nod there, encourage him, that presently he roared +at Wiley and Hatchett: + +“Ye shameless buccaneers that push your way into the tracks of honest +men, where the Company’s been three hundred years by the will o’ God--if +it wasn’t for me, ye Jack Sheppards--” + +Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet with pretended rage, saying +he’d insulted them both, that he was all froth and brawn, and giving him +the lie. + +Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only stare, puffing in his beard, and +drawing in his legs, which had been spread out at angles. He looked from +Wiley to the impassive Pierre. “Buccaneers, you callus,” Wiley went +on; “well, we’ll have no more of that, or there’ll be trouble at Fort +O’Angel.” + +“Ah, sure y’are only jokin’,” said Macavoy, “for I love ye, ye +scoundrels. It’s only me fun.” + +“For fun like that you’ll pay, ruffian!” said Hatchett, bringing down +his fist on the table with a bang. + +Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, but there was nothing of the +coward in his face. “Oh, well,” said he, “I’ll be goin’, for ye’ve got +y’r teeth all raspin’.” + +As he went the two men laughed after him mockingly. “Wind like a bag,” + said Hatchett. “Bone like a marrow-fat pea,” added Wiley. + +Macavoy was at the door, but at that he turned. “If ye care to sail +agin’ that wind, an’ gnaw on that bone, I’d not be sayin’ you no.” + +“Will to-night do--at sunset?” said Wiley. + +“Bedad, then, me b’ys, sunset’ll do--an’ not more than two at a time,” + he added softly, all the roar gone from his throat. Then he went out, +followed by Pierre. + +Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and laughed a little confusedly. +“What’s that he said?” muttered Wiley. “Not more than two at a time, was +it?” + +“That was it. I don’t know that it’s what we bargained for, after all.” + He looked round on the other settlers present, who had been awed by the +childlike, earnest note in Macavoy’s last words. They shook their heads +now a little sagely; they weren’t so sure that Pierre’s little game was +so jovial as it had promised. + +Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much from his giant as yet. In a +little while he had got Macavoy back to his old humour. + +“What was I made for but war!” said the Irishman, “an’ by war to kape +thim at peace, wherever I am.” Soon he was sufficiently restored in +spirits to go with Pierre to Bareback’s lodge, where, sitting at the +tent door, with idlers about, he smoked with the chief and his braves. +Again Pierre worked upon him adroitly, and again he became loud in +speech, and grandly patronising. + +“I’ve stood by ye like a father, ye loafers,” he said, “an’ I give you +my word, ye howlin’ rogues--” + +Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came up suddenly from the ground, +and the chief said fiercely: “You speak crooked things. We are no +rogues. We will fight.” + +Macavoy’s face ran red to his hair. He scratched his head a little +foolishly, and gathered himself up. “Sure, ‘twas only me tasin’, +darlins,” he said, “but I’ll be comin’ again, when y’are not so narvis.” + He turned to go away. + +Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the Indian touched the giant on the +arm. “Will you fight?” said he. + +“Not all o’ ye at once,” said Macavoy slowly, running his eye carefully +along the half-dozen; “not more than three at a toime,” he added with +a simple sincerity, his voice again gone like the dove’s. “At what time +will it be convaynyint for ye?” he asked. + +“At sunset,” said the chief, “before the Fort.” Macavoy nodded and +walked away with Pierre, whose glance of approval at the Indians did not +make them thoroughly happy. + +To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He had already three engagements +of violence for sunset. Pierre directed their steps by a roundabout to +the Company’s stores, and again there was a distinct improvement in the +giant’s spirits. Here at least he could be himself, he thought, here +no one should say him nay. As if nerved by the idea, he plunged at once +into boisterous raillery of the Chief Trader. “Oh, ho,” he began, “me +freebooter, me captain av the looters av the North!” The Trader snarled +at him. “What d’ye mean, by such talk to me, sir? I’ve had enough--we’ve +all had enough--of your brag and bounce; for you’re all sweat and +swill-pipe, and I give you this for your chewing, that though by the +Company’s rules I can’t go out and fight you, you may have your pick of +my men for it. I’ll take my pay for your insults in pounded flesh--Irish +pemmican!” + +Macavoy’s face became mottled with sudden rage. He roared, as, perhaps, +he had never roared before: “Are ye all gone mad-mad-mad? I was jokin’ +wid ye, whin I called ye this or that. But by the swill o’ me pipe, and +the sweat o’ me skin, I’ll drink the blood o’ yees, Trader, me darlin’. +An’ all I’ll ask is, that ye mate me to-night whin the rest o’ the pack +is in front o’ the Fort--but not more than four o’ yees at a time--for +little scrawney rats as y’are, too many o’ yees wad be in me way.” He +wheeled and strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently. + +“He’s a great bully that, isn’t he, Trader? There’ll be fun in front of +the Fort to-night. For he’s only bragging, of course--eh?” + +The Trader nodded with no great assurance, and then Pierre said as a +parting word: “You’ll be there, of course--only four av ye!” and hurried +out after Macavoy, humming to himself-- + + “For the King said this, and the Queen said that, + But he walked away with their army, O!” + +So far Pierre’s plan had worked even better than he expected, though +Macavoy’s moods had not been altogether after his imaginings. He drew +alongside the giant, who had suddenly grown quiet again. Macavoy turned +and looked down at Pierre with the candour of a schoolboy, and his voice +was very low: + +“It’s a long time ago, I’m thinkin’,” he said, “since I lost me +frinds--ages an’ ages ago. For me frinds are me inimies now, an’ that +makes a man old. But I’ll not say that it cripples his arm or humbles +his back.” He drew his arm up once or twice and shot it out straight +into the air like a catapult. “It’s all right,” he added, very softly, +“an’, Half-breed, me b’y, if me frinds have turned inimies, why, I’m +thinkin’ me inimy has turned frind, for that I’m sure you were, an’ this +I’m certain y ‘are. So here’s the grip av me fist, an’ y’ll have it.” + Pierre remembered that disconcerting, iron grip of friendship for many a +day. He laughed to himself to think how he was turning the braggart into +a warrior. “Well,” said Pierre, “what about those five at Wonta’s tent?” + +“I’ll be there whin the sun dips below the Little Red Hill,” he said, +as though his thoughts were far away, and he turned his face towards +Wonta’s tent. Presently he laughed out loud. “It’s manny along day,” he +said, “since--” + +Then he changed his thoughts. “They’ve spoke sharp words in me teeth,” + he continued, “and they’ll pay for it. Bounce! sweat! brag! wind! is it? +There’s dancin’ beyant this night, me darlins!” + +“Are you sure you’ll not run away when they come on?” said Pierre, a +little ironically. + +“Is that the word av a frind?” replied Macavoy, a hand fumbling in his +hair. + +“Did you never run away when faced?” Pierre asked pitilessly. + +“I never turned tail from a man, though, to be sure, it’s been more talk +than fight up here: Fort Ste. Anne’s been but a graveyard for fun these +years.” + +“Eh, well,” persisted Pierre, “but did you never turn tail from a slip +of a woman?” + +The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered his beard in his mouth, +chewing it confusedly. “You’ve a keen tongue for a question,” was his +reply. “What for should anny man run from a woman?” + +“When the furniture flies, an’ the woman knows more of the world in +a day than the man does in a year; and the man’s a hulking bit of an +Irishman--bien, then things are so and so!” + +Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trembling. “Come into the shade of +these maples,” said Pierre, “for the sun has set you quaking a little,” + and he put out his hand to take Macavoy’s arm. + +The giant drew away from the hand, but walked on to the trees. His face +seemed to have grown older by years on the moment. “What’s this y’are +sayin’ to me?” he asked hoarsely. “What do you know av--av that woman?” + +“Malahide is a long way off,” said Pierre, “but when one travels why +shouldn’t the other?” + +Macavoy made a helpless motion with his lumbering hand. “Mother o’ +saints,” he said, “has it come to that, after all these years? Is +she--tell me where she is, me frind, and you’ll niver want an arm to +fight for ye, an’ the half av a blanket, while I have wan!” + +“But you’ll run as you did before, if I tell you, an’ there’ll be no +fighting to-night, accordin’ to the word you’ve given.” + +“No fightin’, did ye say? an’ run away, is it? Then this in your eye, +that if ye’ll bring an army, I’ll fight till the skin is in rags on me +bones, whin it’s only men that’s before me; but woman--and that wan! +Faith, I’d run, I’m thinkin’, as I did, you know when--Don’t tell me +that she’s here, man; arrah, don’t say that!” + +There was something pitiful and childlike in the big man’s voice, so +much so that Pierre, calculating gamester as he was, and working upon +him as he had been for many weeks, felt a sudden pity, and dropping his +fingers on the other’s arm, said: “No, Macavoy, my friend, she is not +here; but she is at Fort Ste. Anne--or was when I left there.” + +Macavoy groaned. “Does she know that I’m here?” he asked. + +“I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away, and she may not hear.” + +“What--what is she doing?” + +“Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan’s green.” Then Pierre told him +somewhat bluntly what he knew of Mrs. Macavoy. + +“I’d rather face Ballzeboob himself than her,” said Macavoy. “An’ she’s +sure to find me.” + +“Not if you do as I say.” + +“An’ what is it ye say, little man?” + +“Come away with me where she’ll not find you.” + +“An’ where’s that, Pierre darlin’?” + +“I’ll tell you that when to-night’s fighting’s over. Have you a mind for +Wonta?” he continued. + +“I’ve a mind for Wonta an’ many another as fine, but I’m a married man,” + he said, “by priest an’ by book; an’ I can’t forget that, though the +woman’s to me as the pit below.” + +Pierre looked curiously at him. “You’re a wonderful fool,” he said, “but +I’m not sure that I like you less for that. There was Shon M’Gann--but +it is no matter.” He sighed and continued: “When to-night is over, you +shall have work and fun that you’ve been fattening for this many a year, +and the woman’ll not find you, be sure of that. Besides--” he whispered +in Macavoy’s ear. + +“Poor divil, poor divil, she’d always a throat for that; but it’s a +horrible death to die, I’m thinkin’.” Macavoy’s chin dropped on his +breast. + +When the sun was falling below Little Red Hill, Macavoy came to Wonta’s +tent. Pierre was not far away. What occurred in the tent Pierre never +quite knew, but presently he saw Wonta run out in a frightened way, +followed by the five half-breeds, who carried themselves awkwardly. +Behind them again, with head shaking from one side to the other, +travelled Macavoy; and they all marched away towards the Fort. “Well,” + said Pierre to Wonta, “he is amusing, eh?--so big a coward, eh?” + +“No, no,” she said, “you are wrong. He is no coward. He is a great +brave. He spoke like a little child, but he said he would fight them all +when--” + +“When their turn came,” interposed Pierre, with a fine “bead” of humour +in his voice; “well, you see he has much to do.” He pointed towards +the Fort, where people were gathering fast. The strange news had gone +abroad, and the settlement, laughing joyously, came to see Macavoy +swagger; they did not think there would be fighting. + +Those whom Macavoy had challenged were not so sure. When the giant +reached the open space in front of the Fort, he looked slowly round him. +A great change had come over him. His skin seemed drawn together more +firmly, and running himself up finely to his full height, he looked +no longer the lounging braggart. Pierre measured him with his eye, and +chuckled to himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his coat and waistcoat, +and rolled up his sleeves. His shirt was flying at the chest. + +He beckoned to Pierre. + +“Are you standin’ me frind in this?” he said. “Now and after,” said +Pierre. + +His voice was very simple. “I never felt as I do since the day the +coast-guardsmin dropped on me in Ireland far away, an’ I drew blood an +every wan o’ them--fine beautiful b’ys they looked--stretchen’ out on +the ground wan by wan. D’ye know the double-an’-twist?” he suddenly +added, “for it’s a honey trick whin they gather in an you, an’ you can’t +be layin’ out wid yer fists. It plays the divil wid the spines av thim. +Will ye have a drop av drink--cold water, man--near, an’ a sponge betune +whiles? For there’s manny in the play--makin’ up for lost time. Come +on,” he added to the two settlers, who stood not far away, “for ye began +the trouble, an’ we’ll settle accordin’ to a, b, c.” + +Wiley and Hatchett were there. Responding to his call, they stepped +forward, though they had now little relish for the matter. They were +pale, but they stripped their coats and waistcoats, and Wiley stepped +bravely in front of Macavoy. The giant looked down on him, arms folded. +“I said two of you,” he crooned, as if speaking to a woman. Hatchett +stepped forward also. An instant after the settlers were lying on the +ground at different angles, bruised and dismayed, and little likely to +carry on the war. Macavoy took a pail of water from the ground, drank +from it lightly, and waited. None other of his opponents stirred. +“There’s three Injins,” he said, “three rid divils, that wants showin’ +the way to their happy huntin’ grounds.... Sure, y’are comin’, ain’t +you, me darlins?” he added coaxingly, and he stretched himself, as if to +make ready. + +Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three Indians, and they stepped +forth warily. They had determined on strategic wrestling, and not on the +instant activity of fists. But their wiliness was useless, for Macavoy’s +double-and-twist came near to lessening the Indian population of Fort +O’Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm, however. The Irishman came out +of the tangle of battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his beard +all torn, and face battered. A shout of laughter, admiration and wonder +went up from the crowd. There was a moment’s pause, and then Macavoy, +whose blood ran high, stood forth again. The Trader came to him. + +“Must this go on?” he said; “haven’t you had your fill of it?” + +Had he touched Macavoy with a word of humour the matter might have ended +there; but now the giant spoke loud, so all could hear. + +“Had me fill av it, Trader, me angel? I’m only gittin’ the taste av it. +An’ ye’ll plaze bring on yer men--four it was--for the feed av Irish +pemmican.” + +The Trader turned and swore at Pierre, who smiled enigmatically. Soon +after, two of the best fighters of the Company’s men stood forth. +Macavoy shook his head. “Four, I said, an’ four I’ll have, or I’ll ate +the heads aff these.” + +Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All on an instant the four made +a rush on the giant; and there was a stiff minute after, in which it was +not clear that he was happy. Blows rattled on him, and one or two he +got on the head, just as he tossed a man spinning senseless across +the grass, which sent him staggering backwards for a moment, sick and +stunned. + +Pierre called over to him swiftly: “Remember Malahide!” + +This acted on him like a charm. There never was seen such a shattered +bundle of men as came out from his hands a few minutes later. As for +himself, he had but a rag or two on him, but stood unmindful of his +state, and the fever of battle untameable on him. The women drew away. + +“Now, me babes o’ the wood,” he shouted, “that sit at the feet av the +finest Injin woman in the North,--though she’s no frind o’ mine--and +aren’t fit to kiss her moccasin, come an wid you, till I have me fun wid +your spines.” + +But a shout went up, and the crowd pointed. There were the five +half-breeds running away across the plains. + +The game was over. + +“Here’s some clothes, man; for Heaven’s sake put them on,” said the +Trader. + +Then the giant became conscious of his condition, and like a timid girl +he hurried into the clothing. + +The crowd would have carried him on their shoulders, but he would have +none of it. + +“I’ve only wan frind here,” he said, “an’ it’s Pierre, an’ to his shanty +I go an’ no other.” + +“Come, mon ami,” said Pierre, “for to-morrow we travel far.” + +“And what for that?” said Macavoy. + +Pierre whispered in his ear: “To make you a king, my lovely bully.” + + + + +THE FILIBUSTER + +Pierre had determined to establish a kingdom, not for gain, but for +conquest’s sake. But because he knew that the thing would pall, he took +with him Macavoy the giant, to make him king instead. But first he +made Macavoy from a lovely bully, a bulk of good-natured brag, into a +Hercules of fight; for, having made him insult--and be insulted by--near +a score of men at Fort O’Angel, he also made him fight them by twos, +threes, and fours, all on a summer’s evening, and send them away broken. +Macavoy would have hesitated to go with Pierre, were it not that he +feared a woman. Not that he had wronged her; she had wronged him: she +had married him. And the fear of one’s own wife is the worst fear in the +world. + +But though his heart went out to women, and his tongue was of the race +that beguiles, he stood to his “lines” like a man, and people wondered. +Even Wonta, the daughter of Foot-in-the-Sun, only bent him, she +could not break him to her will. Pierre turned her shy coaxing into +irony--that was on the day when all Fort O’Angel conspired to prove +Macavoy a child and not a warrior. But when she saw what she had done, +and that the giant was greater than his years of brag, she repented, and +hung a dead coyote at Pierre’s door as a sign of her contempt. + +Pierre watched Macavoy, sitting with a sponge of vinegar to his head, +for he had had nasty joltings in his great fight. A little laugh came +crinkling up to the half-breed’s lips, but dissolved into silence. + +“We’ll start in the morning,” he said. + +Macavoy looked up. “Whin you plaze; but a word in your ear; are you sure +she’ll not follow us?” + +“She doesn’t know. Fort Ste. Anne is in the south, and Fort Comfort, +where we go, is far north.” + +“But if she kem!” the big man persisted. + +“You will be a king; you can do as other kings have done,” Pierre +chuckled. + +The other shook his head. “Says Father Nolan to me,” says he, “tis +till death us do part, an’ no man put asunder’; an’ I’ll stand by that, +though I’d slice out the bist tin years av me life, if I niver saw her +face again.” + +“But the girl, Wonta--what a queen she’d make!” + +“Marry her yourself, and be king yourself, and be damned to you! For +she, like the rest, laughed in me face, whin I told thim of the day whin +I--” + +“That’s nothing. She hung a dead coyote at my door. You don’t know +women. There’ll be your breed and hers abroad in the land one day.” + +Macavoy stretched to his feet--he was so tall that he could not stand +upright in the room. He towered over Pierre, who blandly eyed him. “I’ve +another word for your ear,” he said darkly. “Keep clear av the likes +o’ that wid me. For I’ve swallowed a tribe av divils. It’s fightin’ you +want. Well, I’ll do it--I’ve an itch for the throats av men, but a fool +I’ll be no more wid wimin, white or red--that hell-cat that spoilt me +life an’ killed me child, or--” + +A sob clutched him in the throat. + +“You had a child, then?” asked Pierre gently. + +“An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an’ ‘d melt the heart av an +iron god: none like her above or below. But the mother, ah, the mother +of her! One day whin she’d said a sharp word, wid another from me, an’ +the child clinging to her dress, she turned quick and struck it, meanin’ +to anger me. Not so hard the blow was, but it sent the darlin’s head +agin’ the chimney-stone, and that was the end av it. For she took to her +bed, an’ agin’ the crowin’ o’ the cock wan midnight, she gives a little +cry an’ snatched at me beard. ‘Daddy,’ says she, ‘daddy, it hurts!’ An’ +thin she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her lips.” + +Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling in his beard. Pierre was +uncomfortable. He could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death +unmoved--it seemed to him in the game; but the tragedy of a child, a +mere counter yet in the play of life--that was different. He slid a hand +over the table, and caught Macavoy’s arm. “Poor little waif!” he said. + +Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned Pierre sick, and asked: “Had +ye iver a child av y’r own, Pierre-iver wan at all?” + +“Never,” said Pierre dreamily, “and I’ve travelled far. A child--a +child--is a wonderful thing.... Poor little waif!” + +They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre was about to rise, but Macavoy +suddenly pinned him to his seat with this question: “Did y’ iver have a +wife, thin, Pierre?” + +Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came through his teeth. He spoke +slowly: “Yes, once.” + +“And she died?” asked the other, awed. + +“We all have our day,” he replied enigmatically, “and there are worse +things than death.... Eh, well, mon ami, let us talk of other things. +To-morrow we go to conquer. I know where I can get five men I want. I +have ammunition and dogs.” + +A few minutes afterwards Pierre was busy in the settlement. At the +Fort he heard strange news. A new batch of settlers was coming from the +south, and among them was an old Irishwoman who called herself now Mrs. +Whelan, now Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she was to find, +one Tim Macavoy, whose fame Gossip had brought to her at last. + +She had clung on to the settlers, and they could not shake her off. “She +was comin’,” she said, “to her own darlin’ b’y, from whom she’d been +parted manny a year, believin’ him dead, or Tom Whelan had nivir touched +hand o’ hers.” + +The bearer of the news had but just arrived, and he told it only to the +Chief Trader and Pierre. At a word from Pierre the man promised to hold +his peace. Then Pierre went to Wonta’s lodge. He found her with her +father alone, her head at her knees. When she heard his voice she looked +up sharply, and added a sharp word also. + +“Wait,” he said; “women are such fools. You snapped your fingers in his +face, and laughed at him. Bien, that is nothing. He has proved himself +great. That is something. He will be greater still, if the other woman +does not find him. She should die, but then some women have no sense.” + +“The other woman!” said Wonta, starting to her feet; “who is the other +woman?” + +Old Foot-in-the-Sun waked and sat up, but seeing that it was Pierre, +dropped again to sleep. Pierre, he knew, was no peril to any woman. +Besides, Wonta hated the half-breed, as he thought. + +Pierre told the girl the story of Macavoy’s life; for he knew that she +loved the man after her heathen fashion, and that she could be trusted. + +“I do not care for that,” she said, when he had finished; “it is +nothing. I would go with him. I should be his wife, the other should +die. I would kill her, if she would fight me. I know the way of knives, +or a rifle, or a pinch at the throat--she should die!” + +“Yes, but that will not do. Keep your hands free of her.” + +Then he told her that they were going away. She said she would go also. +He said no to that, but told her to wait and he would come back for her. + +Though she tried hard to follow them, they slipped away from the Fort +in the moist gloom of the morning, the brown grass rustling, the +prairie-hens fluttering, the osiers soughing as they passed, the Spirit +of the North, ever hungry, drawing them on over the long Divides. They +did not see each other’s faces till dawn. They were guided by Pierre’s +voice; none knew his comrades. Besides Pierre and Macavoy, there were +five half-breeds--Noel, Little Babiche, Corvette, Josh, and Jacques +Parfaite. When they came to recognise each other, they shook hands, +and marched on. In good time they reached that wonderful and pleasant +country between the Barren Grounds and the Lake of Silver Shallows. To +the north of it was Fort Comfort, which they had come to take. Macavoy’s +rich voice roared as of old, before his valour was questioned--and +maintained--at Fort O’Angel. Pierre had diverted his mind from the woman +who, at Fort O’Angel, was even now calling heaven and earth to witness +that “Tim Macavoy was her Macavoy and no other, an’ she’d find him--the +divil and darlin’, wid an arm like Broin Borhoime, an’ a chest you could +build a house on--if she walked till Doomsday!” + +Macavoy stood out grandly, his fat all gone to muscle, blowing through +his beard, puffing his cheek, and ready with tale or song. But now that +they were facing the business of their journey, his voice got soft and +gentle, as it did before the Fort, when he grappled his foes two by two +and three by three, and wrung them out. In his eyes there was the +thing which counts as many men in any soldier’s sight, when he leads +in battle. As he said himself, he was made for war, like Malachi o’ the +Golden Collar. + +Pierre guessed that just now many of the Indians would be away for the +summer hunt, and that the Fort would perhaps be held by only a few score +of braves, who, however, would fight when they might easier play. He had +no useless compunctions about bloodshed. A human life he held to be a +trifle in the big sum of time, and that it was of little moment when a +man went, if it seemed his hour. He lived up to his creed, for he had +ever held his own life as a bird upon a housetop, which a chance stone +might drop. + +He was glad afterwards that he had decided to fight, for there was one +in Fort Comfort against whom he had an old grudge--the Indian, Young +Eye, who, many years before, had been one to help in killing the good +Father Halen, the priest who dropped the water on his forehead and set +the cross on top of that, when he was at his mother’s breasts. One by +one the murderers had been killed, save this man. He had wandered north, +lived on the Coppermine River for a long time, and at length had come +down among the warring tribes at the Lake of Silver Shallows. + +Pierre was for direct attack. They crossed the lake in their canoes, at +a point about five miles from the Fort, and, so far as they could tell, +without being seen. Then ammunition went round, and they marched upon +the Fort. Pierre eyed Macavoy--measured him, as it were, for what he was +worth. The giant seemed happy. He was humming a tune softly through his +beard. Suddenly Jose paused, dropped to the foot of a pine, and put his +ear to it. Pierre understood. He had caught at the same thing. “There is +a dance on,” said Jose, “I can hear the drum.” + +Pierre thought a minute. “We will reconnoitre,” he said presently. + +“It is near night now,” remarked Little Babiche. “I know something +of these. When they have a great snake dance at night, strange things +happen.” Then he spoke in a low tone to Pierre. + +They halted in the bush, and Little Babiche went forward to spy upon the +Fort. He came back just after sunset, reporting that the Indians were +feasting. He had crept near, and had learned that the braves were +expected back from the hunt that night, and that the feast was for their +welcome. + +The Fort stood in an open space, with tall trees for a background. In +front, here and there, were juniper and tamarac bushes. Pierre laid his +plans immediately, and gave the word to move on. Their presence had not +been discovered, and if they could but surprise the Indians the Fort +might easily be theirs. They made a detour, and after an hour came upon +the Fort from behind. Pierre himself went forward cautiously, leaving +Macavoy in command. When he came again he said: + +“It’s a fine sight, and the way is open. They are feasting and dancing. +If we can enter without being seen, we are safe, except for food; we +must trust for that. Come on.” + +When they arrived at the margin of the woods a wonderful scene was +before them. A volcanic hill rose up on one side, gloomy and stern, but +the reflection of the fires reached it, and made its sides quiver--the +rock itself seemed trembling. The sombre pines showed up, a wall all +round, and in the open space, turreted with fantastic fires, the Indians +swayed in and out with weird chanting, their bodies mostly naked, and +painted in strange colours. The earth itself was still and sober. Scarce +a star peeped forth. A purple velvet curtain seemed to hang all down the +sky, though here and there the flame bronzed it. The Indian lodges were +empty, save where a few children squatted at the openings. The seven +stood still with wonder, till Pierre whispered to them to get to the +ground and crawl close in by the walls of the Fort, following him. They +did so, Macavoy breathing hard--too hard; for suddenly Pierre clapped a +hand on his mouth. + +They were now near the Fort, and Pierre had seen an Indian come from +the gate. The brave was within a few feet of them. He had almost passed +them, for they were in the shadow, but Jose had burst a puffball with +his hand, and the dust, flying up, made him sneeze. The Indian turned +and saw them. With a low cry and the spring of a tiger Pierre was at +his throat; and in another minute they were struggling on the ground. +Pierre’s hand never let go. His comrades did not stir; he had warned +them to lie still. They saw the terrible game played out within arm’s +length of them. They heard Pierre say at last, as the struggles of the +Indian ceased: “Beast! You had Father Halen’s life. I have yours.” + +There was one more wrench of the Indian’s limbs, and then he lay still. + +They crawled nearer the gate, still hidden in the shadows and the grass. +Presently they came to a clear space. Across this they must go, and +enter the Fort before they were discovered. They got to their feet, and +ran with wonderful swiftness, Pierre leading, to the gate. They had just +reached it when there was a cry from the walls, on which two Indians +were sitting. The Indians sprang down, seized their spears, and lunged +at the seven as they entered. One spear caught Little Babiche in the arm +as he swung aside, but with the butt of his musket Noel dropped him. +The other Indian was promptly handled by Pierre himself. By this time +Corvette and Jose had shut the gates, and the Fort was theirs--an easy +conquest. The Indians were bound and gagged. + +The adventurers had done it all without drawing the attention of the +howling crowd without. The matter was in its infancy, however. They +had the place, but could they hold it? What food and water were there +within? Perhaps they were hardly so safe besieged as besiegers. Yet +there was no doubt on Pierre’s part. He had enjoyed the adventure so far +up to the hilt. An old promise had been kept, and an old wrong avenged. + +“What’s to be done now?” said Macavoy. “There’ll be hell’s own racket; +and they’ll come on like a flood.” + +“To wait,” said Pierre, “and dam the flood as it comes. But not a bullet +till I give the word. Take to the chinks. We’ll have them soon.” + +He was right: they came soon. Someone had found the dead body of Young +Eye; then it was discovered that the gate was shut. A great shout went +up. The Indians ran to their lodges for spears and hatchets, though +the weapons of many were within the Fort, and soon they were about the +place, shouting in impotent rage. They could not tell how many invaders +were in the Fort; they suspected it was the Little Skins, their ancient +enemies. But Young Eye, they saw, had not been scalped. This was brought +to the old chief, and he called to his men to fall back. They had not +seen one man of the invaders; all was silent and dark within the Fort; +even the two torches which had been burning above the gate were down. +At that moment, as if to add to the strangeness, a caribou came suddenly +through the fires, and, passing not far from the bewildered Indians, +plunged into the trees behind the Fort. + +The caribou is credited with great powers. It is thought to understand +all that is said to it, and to be able to take the form of a spirit. No +Indian will come near it till it is dead, and he that kills it out of +season is supposed to bring down all manner of evil. + +So at this sight they cried out--the women falling to the ground with +their faces in their arms--that the caribou had done this thing. For a +moment they were all afraid. Besides, as a brave showed, there was no +mark on the body of Young Eye. + +Pierre knew quite well that this was a bull caribou, travelling wildly +till he found another herd. He would carry on the deception. “Wail for +the dead, as your women do in Ireland. That will finish them,” he said +to Macavoy. + +The giant threw his voice up and out, so that it seemed to come from +over the Fort to the Indians, weird and crying. Even the half-breeds +standing by felt a light shock of unnatural excitement. The Indians +without drew back slowly from the Fort, leaving a clear space between. +Macavoy had uncanny tricks with his voice, and presently he changed +the song into a shrill, wailing whistle, which went trembling about the +place and then stopped suddenly. + +“Sure, that’s a poor game, Pierre,” he whispered; “an’ I’d rather be +pluggin’ their hides wid bullets, or givin’ the double-an’-twist. It’s +fightin’ I come for, and not the trick av Mother Kilkevin.” + +Pierre arranged a plan of campaign at once. Every man looked to his gun, +the gates were slowly opened, and Macavoy stepped out. Pierre had thrown +over the Irishman’s shoulders the great skin of a musk-ox which he +had found inside the stockade. He was a strange, immense figure, as he +walked into the open space, and, folding his arms, looked round. In +the shadow of the gate behind were Pierre and the halfbreeds, with guns +cocked. + +Macavoy had lived so long in the north that he knew enough of all the +languages to speak to this tribe. When he came out a murmur of wonder +ran among the Indians. They had never seen anyone so tall, for they were +not great of stature, and his huge beard and wild shock of hair were a +wonderful sight. He remained silent, looking on them. At last the old +chief spoke. “Who are you?” + +“I am a great chief from the Hills of the Mighty Men, come to be your +king,” was his reply. + +“He is your king,” cried Pierre in a strange voice from the shadow of +the gate, and he thrust out his gun-barrel, so that they could see it. + +The Indians now saw Pierre and the half-breeds in the gateway, and they +had not so much awe. They came a little nearer, and the women stopped +crying. A few of the braves half-raised their spears. Seeing this, +Pierre instantly stepped forward to the giant. He looked a child in +stature thereby. He spoke quickly and well in the Chinook language. + +“This is a mighty man from the Hills of the Mighty Men. He has come +to rule over you, to give all other tribes into your hands; for he has +strength like a thousand, and fears nothing of gods nor men. I have +the blood of red men in me. It is I who have called this man from +his distant home. I heard of your fighting and foolishness: also that +warriors were to come from the south country to scatter your wives and +children, and to make you slaves. I pitied you, and I have brought you a +chief greater than any other. Throw your spears upon the ground, and all +will be well; but raise one to throw, or one arrow, or axe, and there +shall be death among you, so that as a people you shall die. The spirits +are with us. ... Well?” + +The Indians drew a little nearer, but they did not drop their spears, +for the old chief forbade them. + +“We are no dogs nor cowards,” he said, “though the spirits be with +you, as we believe. We have seen strange things”--he pointed to Young +Eye--“and heard voices not of men; but we would see great things as well +as strange. There are seven men of the Little Skins tribe within a lodge +yonder. They were to die when our braves returned from the hunt, and for +that we prepared the feast. But this mighty man, he shall fight them all +at once, and if he kills them he shall be our king. In the name of my +tribe I speak. And this other,” pointing to Pierre, “he shall also fight +with a strong man of our tribe, so that we shall know if you are all +brave, and not as those who crawl at the knees of the mighty.” + +This was more than Pierre had bargained for. Seven men at Macavoy, and +Indians too, fighting for their lives, was a contract of weight. But +Macavoy was blowing in his beard cheerfully enough. + +“Let me choose me ground,” he said, “wid me back to the wall, an’ I’ll +take thim as they come.” + +Pierre instantly interpreted this to the Indians, and said for himself +that he would welcome their strongest man at the point of a knife when +he chose. + +The chief gave an order, and the Little Skins were brought. The fires +still burned brightly, and the breathing of the pines, as a slight wind +rose and stirred them, came softly over. The Indians stood off at the +command of the chief. Macavoy drew back to the wall, dropped the musk-ox +skin to the ground, and stripped himself to the waist. But in his +waistband there was what none of these Indians had ever seen--a small +revolver that barked ever so softly. In the hands of each Little Skin +there was put a knife, and they were told their cheerful exercise. They +came on cautiously, and then suddenly closed in, knives flashing. But +Macavoy’s little bulldog barked, and one dropped to the ground. The +others fell back. The wounded man drew up, made a lunge at Macavoy, but +missed him. As if ashamed, the other six came on again at a spring. But +again the weapon did its work smartly, and one more came down. Now the +giant put it away, ran in upon the five, and cut right and left. So +sudden and massive was his rush that they had no chance. Three fell +at his blows, and then he drew back swiftly to the wall. “Drop your +knives,” he said, as they cowered, “or I’ll kill you all.” They did so. +He dropped his own. + +“Now come on, ye scuts!” he cried, and suddenly he reached and caught +them, one with each arm, and wrestled with them, till he bent the one +like a willow-rod, and dropped him with a broken back, while the other +was at his mercy. Suddenly loosing him, he turned him towards the woods, +and said: “Run, ye rid divil, run for y’r life!” + +A dozen spears were raised, but the rifles of Pierre’s men came in +between: the Indian reached cover and was gone. Of the six others, two +had been killed, the rest were severely wounded, and Macavoy had not a +scratch. + +Pierre smiled grimly. “You’ve been doing all the fighting, Macavoy,” he +said. + +“There’s no bein’ a king for nothin’,” he replied, wiping blood from his +beard. + +“It’s my turn now, but keep your rifles ready, though I think there’s no +need.” + +Pierre had but a short minute with the champion, for he was an expert +with the knife. He carried away four fingers of the Indian’s fighting +hand, and that ended it; for the next instant the point was at the red +man’s throat. The Indian stood to take it like a man; but Pierre loved +that kind of courage, and shot the knife into its sheath instead. + +The old chief kept his word, and after the spears were piled, he shook +hands with Macavoy, as did his braves one by one, and they were all +moved by the sincerity of his grasp: their arms were useless for some +time after. They hailed as their ruler, King Macavoy I.; for men are +like dogs--they worship him who beats them. The feasting and dancing +went on till the hunters came back. Then there was a wild scene, but in +the end all the hunters, satisfied, came to greet their new king. + +The king himself went to bed in the Fort that night, Pierre and +his bodyguard--by name Noel, Little Babiche, Corvette, Jose, and +Parfaite--its only occupants, singing joyfully: + + “Did yees iver hear tell o’ Long Barney, + That come from the groves o’ Killarney? + He wint for a king, oh, he wint for a king, + But he niver keen back to Killarney + Wid his crown, an’ his soord, an’ his army!” + +As a king Macavoy was a success, for the brag had gone from him. Like +all his race he had faults as a subject, but the responsibility of +ruling set him right. He found in the Fort an old sword and belt, left +by some Hudson’s Bay Company’s man, and these he furbished up and wore. + +With Pierre’s aid he drew up a simple constitution, which he carried in +the crown of his cap, and he distributed beads and gaudy trappings as +marks of honour. Nor did he forget the frequent pipe of peace, made +possible to all by generous gifts of tobacco. Anyone can found a kingdom +abaft the Barren Grounds with tobacco, beads, and red flannel. + +For very many weeks it was a happy kingdom. But presently Pierre yawned, +and was ready to return. Three of the half-breeds were inclined to go +with him. Jose and Little Babiche had formed alliances which held them +there--besides, King Macavoy needed them. + +On the eve of Pierre’s departure a notable thing occurred. + +A young brave had broken his leg in hunting, had been picked up by a +band of another tribe, and carried south. He found himself at last at +Fort O’Angel. There he had met Mrs. Whelan, and for presents of tobacco, +and purple and fine linen, he had led her to her consort. That was how +the king and Pierre met her in the yard of Fort Comfort one evening of +early autumn. Pierre saw her first, and was for turning the King about +and getting him away; but it was too late. Mrs. Whelan had seen him, and +she called out at him: + +“Oh, Tim! me jool, me king, have I found ye, me imp’ror!” + +She ran at him, to throw her arms round him. He stepped back, the red of +his face going white, and said, stretching out his hand, “Woman, y’are +me wife, I know, whativer y’ be; an’ y’ve right to have shelter and +bread av me; but me arms, an’ me bed, are me own to kape or to give; +and, by God, ye shall have nayther one nor the other! There’s a ditch as +wide as hell betune us.” + +The Indians had gathered quickly; they filled the yard, and crowded the +gate. The woman went wild, for she had been drinking. She ran at Macavoy +and spat in his face, and called down such a curse on him as, whoever +hears, be he one that’s cursed or any other, shudders at till he dies. +Then she fell in a fit at his feet. Macavoy turned to the Indians, +stretched out his hands and tried to speak, but could not. He stooped +down, picked up the woman, carried her into the Fort, and laid her on a +bed of skins. + +“What will you do?” asked Pierre. + +“She is my wife,” he answered firmly. + +“She lived with Whelan.” + +“She must be cared for,” was the reply. Pierre looked at him with a +curious quietness. “I’ll get liquor for her,” he said presently. He +started to go, but turned and felt the woman’s pulse. “You would keep +her?” he asked. + +“Bring the liquor.” Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the sleeve of +his shirt in it, wetted her face gently. + +Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that the woman would die. He +stayed with Macavoy beside her all the night. Towards morning her eyes +opened, and she shivered greatly. + +“It’s bither cold,” she said. “You’ll put more wood on the fire, Tim, +for the babe must be kept warrum.” + +She thought she was at Malahide. + +“Oh, wurra, wurra, but ‘tis freezin’!” she said again. “Why d’ye kape +the door opin whin the child’s perishin’?” + +Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shaking him. + +“I’ll shut the door meself, thin,” she added; “for ‘twas I that lift it +opin, Tim.” She started up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell +back. + +“The door is shut,” said Pierre. + +“But the child--the child!” said Macavoy, tears running down his face +and beard. + + + + +THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING + +Once Macavoy the giant ruled a tribe of Northern people, achieving the +dignity by the hands of Pierre, who called him King Macavoy. Then came +a time when, tiring of his kingship, he journeyed south, leaving all +behind, even his queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and yarrow, +came forth no more into the morning. About Fort Guidon they still +gave him his title, and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and +generosity, Pierre called him “The Simple King.” His seven feet and over +shambled about, suggesting unjointed power, unshackled force. No one +hated Macavoy, many loved him, he was welcome at the fire and the +cooking-pot; yet it seemed shameful to have so much man useless--such +an engine of life, which might do great things, wasting fuel. Nobody +thought much of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps, Pierre, who +sometimes said, “My simple king, some day you shall have your great +chance again; but not as a king--as a giant, a man--voila!” + +The day did not come immediately, but it came. When Ida, the deaf and +dumb girl, married Hilton, of the H.B.C., every man at Fort Guidon, and +some from posts beyond, sent her or brought her presents of one kind or +another. Pierre’s gift was a Mexican saddle. He was branding Ida’s name +on it with the broken blade of a case-knife when Macavoy entered on him, +having just returned from a vagabond visit to Fort Ste. Anne. + +“Is it digging out or carvin’ in y’are?” he asked, puffing into his +beard. + +Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not reply to the insinuation, +for he never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it; and he would +not quarrel with Macavoy. + +“What are you going to give?” he asked. + +“Aw, give what to who, hop-o’-me-thumb?” Macavoy said, stretching +himself out in the doorway, his legs in the sun, head in the shade. + +“You’ve been taking a walk in the country, then?” Pierre asked, though +he knew. + +“To Fort Ste. Anne: a buryin’, two christ’nin’s, an’ a weddin’; an’ +lashin’s av grog an’ swill-aw that, me button o’ the North!” + +“La la! What a fool you are, my simple king! You’ve got the things end +foremost. Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light a cigarette, +and if you breathe this way, there will be a grand explode.” + +“Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre! It’s like a baby’s, me breath is, +milk and honey it is--aw yis; an’ Father Corraine, that was doin’ the +trick for the love o’ God, says he to me, ‘Little Tim Macavoy,’--aw yis, +little Tim Macavoy,--says he, ‘when are you goin’ to buckle to, for +the love o’ God?’ says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that Father Corraine +should spake to me like that, for I’d only a twig twisted at me hips to +kape me trousies up, an’ I thought ‘twas that he had in his eye! ‘Buckle +to,’ says I, ‘Father Corraine? Buckle to, yer riv’rince?’--feelin’ I +was at the twigs the while. ‘Ay, little Tim Macavoy,’ he says, says he, +‘you’ve bin ‘atin’ the husks av idleness long enough; when are you goin’ +to buckle to? You had a kingdom and ye guv it up,’ says he; ‘take +a field, get a plough, and buckle to,’ says he, ‘an’ turn back no +more’--like that, says Father Corraine; and I thinkin’ all the time +‘twas the want o’ me belt he was drivin’ at.” + +Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then said: “Such a tom-fool! And +where’s that grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch?” + +A laugh shook through Macavoy’s beard. “For the weddin’ it wint: buckled +the two up wid it for better or worse--an’ purty they looked, they did, +standin’ there in me cinch, an’ one hole left--aw yis, Pierre.” + +“And what do you give to Ida?” Pierre asked, with a little emphasis of +the branding-iron. + +Macavoy got to his feet. “Ida! Ida!” said he. “Is that saddle for Ida? +Is it her and Hilton that’s to ate aff one dish togither? That rose o’ +the valley, that bird wid a song in her face and none an her tongue. +That daisy dot av a thing, steppin’ through the world like a sprig o’ +glory. Aw, Pierre, thim two!--an’ I’ve divil a scrap to give, good or +bad. I’ve nothin’ at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes an me +back, an’ thim hangin’ on the underbrush!”--giving a little twist to the +twigs. “An’ many a meal an’ many a dipper o’ drink she’s guv me, little +smiles dancin’ at her lips.” + +He sat down in the doorway again, with his face turned towards Pierre, +and the back of his head in the sun. He was a picture of perfect health, +sumptuous, huge, a bull in beauty, the heart of a child looking out of +his eyes, but a sort of despair, too, in his bearing. + +Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for a time, then he said +languidly: “Never mind your clothes, give yourself.” + +“Yer tongue in yer cheek, me spot o’ vinegar. Give meself! What’s that +for? A purty weddin’ gift, says I? Handy thing to have in the house! Use +me for a clothes-horse, or shtand me in the garden for a fairy bower-aw +yis, wid a hole in me face that’d ate thim out o’ house and home!” + +Pierre drew a piece of brown paper towards him, and wrote on it with a +burnt match. Presently he held it up. “Voila, my simple king, the thing +for you to do: a grand gift, and to cost you nothing now. Come, read it +out, and tell me what you think.” + +Macavoy took the paper, and in a large, judicial way, read slowly: + +“On demand, for value received, I promise to pay to... IDA HILTON... or +order, meself, Tim Macavoy, standin’ seven foot three on me bare fut, +wid interest at nothin’ at all.” + +Macavoy ended with a loud smack of the lips. “McGuire!” he said, and +nothing more. + +McGuire was his strongest expression. In the most important moments +of his career he had said it, and it sounded deep, strange, and more +powerful than many usual oaths. A moment later he said again “McGuire!” + Then he read the paper once more out loud. “What’s that, me Frinchman?” + he asked. “What Ballzeboob’s tricks are y’at now?” + +Pierre was complacently eyeing his handiwork on the saddle. He now +settled back with his shoulders to the wall, and said: “See, then, it’s +a little promissory note for a wedding-gift to Ida. When she says some +day, ‘Tim Macavoy, I want you to do this or that, or to go here or +there, or to sell you or trade you, or use you for a clothes-horse, or a +bridge over a canyon, or to hold up a house, or blow out a prairie-fire, +or be my second husband,’ you shall say, ‘Here I am’; and you shall +travel from Heaven to Halifax, but you shall come at the call of this +promissory.” + +Pierre’s teeth glistened behind a smile as he spoke, and Macavoy broke +into a roar of laughter. “Black’s the white o’ yer eye,” he said at +last, “an’ a joke’s a joke. Seven fut three I am, an’ sound av wind an’ +limb--an’ a weddin’-gift to that swate rose o’ the valley! Aisy, aisy, +Pierre. A bit o’ foolin’ ‘twas ye put on the paper, but truth I’ll make +it, me cock o’ the walk. That’s me gift to her an’ Hilton, an’ no other. +An’ a dab wid red wax it shall have, an’ what more be the word o’ Freddy +Tarlton the lawyer?” + +“You’re a great man,” said Pierre with a touch of gentle irony, for his +natural malice had no play against the huge ex-king of his own making. +With these big creatures--he had connived with several in his time--he +had ever been superior, protective, making them to feel that they were +as children beside him. He looked at Macavoy musingly, and said to +himself: “Well, why not? If it is a joke, then it is a joke; if it is a +thing to make the world stand still for a minute sometime, so much the +better. He is all waste now. By the holy, he shall do it. It is amusing, +and it may be great by and by.” + +Presently Pierre said aloud: “Well, my Macavoy, what will you do? Send +this good gift?” + +“Aw yis, Pierre; I shtand by that from the crown av me head to the sole +av me fut sure. Face like a mornin’ in May, and hands like the tunes of +an organ, she has. Spakes wid a look av her eye and a twist av her +purty lips an’ swaying body, an’ talkin’ to you widout a word. Aw +motion--motion--motion; yis, that’s it. An’ I’ve seen her an tap av +a hill wid the wind blowin’ her hair free, and the yellow buds on the +tree, and the grass green beneath her feet, the world smilin’ betune her +and the sun: pictures--pictures, aw yis! Promissory notice on demand is +it anny toime? Seven fut three on me bare toes--but Father o’ Sin! when +she calls I come, yis.” + +“On your oath, Macavoy?” asked Pierre; “by the book av the Mass?” + +Macavoy stood up straight till his head scraped the cobwebs between the +rafters, the wild indignation of a child in his eye. “D’ye think I’m a +thafe to stale me own word? Hut! I’ll break ye in two, ye wisp o’ straw, +if ye doubt me word to a lady. There’s me note av hand, and ye shall +have me fist on it, in writin’, at Freddy Tarlton’s office, wid a blotch +av red an’ the Queen’s head at the bottom. McGuire!” he said again, and +paused, puffing his lips through his beard. + +Pierre looked at him a moment, then waving his fingers idly, said, +“So, my straw-breaker! Then tomorrow morning at ten you will fetch your +wedding-gift. But come so soon now to M’sieu’ Tarlton’s office, and +we will have it all as you say, with the red seal and the turn of your +fist--yes. Well, well, we travel far in the world, and sometimes we see +strange things, and no two strange things are alike--no; there is only +one Macavoy in the world, there was only one Shon McGann. Shon McGann +was a fine fool, but he did something at last, truly yes: Tim Macavoy, +perhaps, will do something at last on his own hook. Hey, I wonder!” He +felt the muscles of Macavoy’s arm musingly, and then laughed up in the +giant’s face. “Once I made you a king, my own, and you threw it all +away; now I make you a slave, and we shall see what you will do. Come +along, for M’sieu’ Tarlton.” + +Macavoy dropped a heavy hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “‘Tis hard to be a +king, Pierre, but ‘tis aisy to be a slave for the likes o’ her. I’d kiss +her dirty shoe sure!” + +As they passed through the door, Pierre said, “Dis done, perhaps, when +all is done, she will sell you for old bones and rags. Then I will buy +you, and I will burn your bones and the rags, and I will scatter to the +four winds of the earth the ashes of a king, a slave, a fool, and an +Irishman--truly!” + +“Bedad, ye’ll have more earth in yer hands then, Pierre, than ye’ll ever +earn, and more heaven than ye’ll ever shtand in.” + +Half an hour later they were in Freddy Tarlton’s office on the banks of +the Little Big Swan, which tumbled past, swelled by the first rain of +the early autumn. Freddy Tarlton, who had a gift of humour, entered into +the spirit of the thing, and treated it seriously; but in vain did +he protest that the large red seal with Her Majesty’s head on it was +unnecessary; Macavoy insisted, and wrote his name across it with a large +indistinctness worthy of a king. Before the night was over everybody at +Guidon Hill, save Hilton and Ida, knew what gift would come from Macavoy +to the wedded pair. + + + +II + +The next morning was almost painfully beautiful, so delicate in its +clearness, so exalted by the glory of the hills, so grand in the +limitless stretch of the green-brown prairie north and south. It was +a day for God’s creatures to meet in, and speed away, and having flown +round the boundaries of that spacious domain, to return again to +the nest of home on the large plateau between the sea and the stars. +Gathered about Ida’s home was everybody who lived within a radius of a +hundred miles. In the large front room all the presents were set: rich +furs from the far north, cunningly carved bowls, rocking-chairs made +by hand, knives, cooking utensils, a copy of Shakespeare in six volumes +from the Protestant missionary who performed the ceremony, a nugget of +gold from the Long Light River; and outside the door, a horse, Hilton’s +own present to his wife, on which was put Pierre’s saddle, with its +silver mounting and Ida’s name branded deep on pommel and flap. When +Macavoy arrived, a cheer went up, which was carried on waves of laughter +into the house to Hilton and Ida, who even then were listening to the +first words of the brief service which begins, “I charge you both if you +do know any just cause or impediment--” and so on. + +They did not turn to see what it was, for just at that moment they +themselves were the very centre of the universe. Ida being deaf and +dumb, it was necessary to interpret to her the words of the service by +signs, as the missionary read it, and this was done by Pierre himself, +the half-breed Catholic, the man who had brought Hilton and Ida +together, for he and Ida had been old friends. After Father Corraine +had taught her the language of signs, Pierre had learned them from her, +until at last his gestures had become as vital as her own. The delicate +precision of his every movement, the suggestiveness of look and motion, +were suited to a language which was nearer to the instincts of his own +nature than word of mouth. All men did not trust Pierre, but all women +did; with those he had a touch of Machiavelli, with these he had no sign +of Mephistopheles, and few were the occasions in his life when he +showed outward tenderness to either: which was equally effective. He +had learnt, or knew by instinct, that exclusiveness as to men and +indifference as to women are the greatest influences on both. As he +stood there, slowly interpreting to Ida, by graceful allusive signs, the +words of the service, one could not think that behind his impassive +face there was any feeling for the man or for the woman. He had that +disdainful smile which men acquire who are all their lives aloof from +the hopes of the hearthstone and acknowledge no laws but their own. + +More than once the eyes of the girl filled with tears, as the pregnancy +of some phrase in the service came home to her. Her face responded to +Pierre’s gestures, as do one’s nerves to the delights of good music, and +there was something so unique, so impressive in the ceremony, that the +laughter which had greeted Macavoy passed away, and a dead silence; +beginning from where the two stood, crept out until it covered all the +prairie. Nothing was heard except Hilton’s voice in strong tones saying, +“I take thee to be my wedded wife,” etc.; but when the last words of +the service were said, and the newmade bride turned to her husband’s +embrace, and a little sound of joy broke from her lips, there was plenty +of noise and laughter again, for Macavoy stood in the doorway, or rather +outside it, stooping to look in upon the scene. Someone had lent him the +cinch of a broncho and he had belted himself with it, no longer carrying +his clothes about “on the underbrush.” Hilton laughed and stretched out +his hand. “Come in, King,” he said, “come and wish us joy.” + +Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his way, and instantly was +stooping before the pair--for he could not stand upright in the room. + +“Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that’s pluckin’ the rose av +the valley, snatchin’ the stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o’ +that! Travel down I did yesterday from Fort Ste. Anne, and divil a word +I knew till Pierre hit me in the eye wid it last night--and no time for +a present, for a wedding-gift--no, aw no!” + +Just here Ida reached up and touched him on the shoulder. He smiled down +on her, puffing and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to her, yet +knowing no word by signs to say; but he nodded his head at her, and +he patted Hilton’s shoulder, and he took their hands and joined them +together, hers on top of Hilton’s, and shook them in one of his own +till she almost winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who nodded +in reply, Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy to kiss--Macavoy, the idle, +ill-cared-for, boisterous giant. His face became red like that of a +child caught in an awkward act, and with an absurd shyness he stooped +and touched her cheek. Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, “Aw, +the rose o’ the valley, the pride o’ the wide wurruld! aw, the bloom o’ +the hills! I’d have kissed her dirty shoe. McQuire!” + +A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear air of the prairie, and +the hills seemed to stir with the pleasure of life. Then it was that +Macavoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly stopped beside the +horse, drew from his pocket the promissory note that Pierre had written, +and said, “Yis, but all the weddin’-gifts aren’t in. ‘Tis nothin’ I had +to give-divil a cent in the wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot +for the fire, or a bit av linin for the table; nothin’ but meself and me +dirty clothes, standin’ seven fut three an me bare toes. What was I to +do? There was only meself to give, so I give it free and hearty, and +here it is wid the Queen’s head an it, done in Mr. Tarlton’s office. +Ye’d better had had a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse, or a +saddle, or a quart o’ brown brandy; but such as it is I give it ye--I +give it to the rose o’ the valley and the star o’ the wide wurruld.” + +In a loud voice he read the promissory note, and handed it to Ida. Men +laughed till there were tears in their eyes, and a keg of whisky was +opened; but somehow Ida did not laugh. She and Pierre had seen a serious +side to Macavoy’s gift: the childlike manliness in it. It went home to +her woman’s heart without a touch of ludicrousness, without a sound of +laughter. + + + +III + +After a time the interest in this wedding-gift declined at Fort Guidon, +and but three people remembered it with any singular distinctness--Ida, +Pierre, and Macavoy. Pierre was interested, for in his primitive mind he +knew that, however wild a promise, life is so wild in its events, there +comes the hour for redemption of all I O U’s. + +Meanwhile, weeks, months, and even a couple of years passed, Macavoy +and Pierre coming and going, sometimes together, sometimes not, in all +manner of words at war, in all manner of fact at peace. And Ida, out of +the bounty of her nature, gave the two vagabonds a place at her fireside +whenever they chose to come. Perhaps, where speech was not given, a gift +of divination entered into her instead, and she valued what others found +useless, and held aloof from what others found good. She had powers +which had ever been the admiration of Guidon Hill. Birds and animals +were her friends--she called them her kinsmen. A peculiar sympathy +joined them; so that when, at last, she tamed a white wild duck, and +made it do the duties of a carrier-pigeon, no one thought it strange. + +Up in the hills, beside the White Sun River, lived her sister and her +sister’s children; and, by and by, the duck carried messages back and +forth, so that when, in the winter, Ida’s health became delicate, she +had comfort in the solicitude and cheerfulness of her sister, and the +gaiety of the young birds of her nest, who sent Ida many a sprightly +message and tales of their good vagrancy in the hills. In these days +Pierre and Macavoy were little at the Post, save now and then to sit +with Hilton beside the fire, waiting for spring and telling tales. Upon +Hilton had settled that peaceful, abstracted expectancy which shows man +at his best, as he waits for the time when, through the half-lights of +his fatherhood, he shall see the broad fine dawn of motherhood spreading +up the world--which, all being said and done, is that place called Home. +Something gentle came over him while he grew stouter in body and in all +other ways made a larger figure among the people of the West. + +As Pierre said, whose wisdom was more to be trusted than his general +morality, “It is strange that most men think not enough of themselves +till a woman shows them how. But it is the great wonder that the woman +does not despise him for it. Quel caractere! She has so often to show +him his way like a babe, and yet she says to him, Mon grand homme! my +master! my lord! Pshaw! I have often thought that women are half saints, +half fools, and men half fools, half rogues. But Quelle vie!--what life! +without a woman you are half a man; with one you are bound to a single +spot in the world, you are tied by the leg, your wing is clipped--you +cannot have all. Quelle vie--what life!” + +To this Macavoy said: “Spit-spat! But what the devil good does all yer +thinkin’ do ye, Pierre? It’s argufy here and argufy there, an’ while yer +at that, me an’ the rest av us is squeezin’ the fun out o’ life. Aw, go +‘long wid ye. Y’are only a bit o’ hell and grammar, annyway. Wid all yer +cuttin’ and carvin’ things to see the internals av thim, I’d do more +to the call av a woman’s finger than for all the logic and knowalogy y’ +ever chewed--an’ there y’are, me little tailor o’ jur’sprudince!” + +“To the finger call of Hilton’s wife, eh?” + +Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre’s enigmatical tone meant. A wild +light showed in his eyes, and his tongue blundered out: “Yis, Hilton’s +wife’s finger, or a look av her eye, or nothin’ at all. Aisy, aisy, ye +wasp! Ye’d go stalkin’ divils in hell for her yerself, so ye would. But +the tongue av ye--but, it’s gall to the tip.” + +“Maybe, my king. But I’d go hunting because I wanted; you because you +must. You’re a slave to come and to go, with a Queen’s seal on the +promissory.” + +Macavoy leaned back and roared. “Aw, that! The rose o’ the valley--the +joy o’ the wurruld! S’t, Pierre--” his voice grew softer on a sudden, as +a fresh thought came to him--“did y’ ever think that the child might be +dumb like the mother?” + +This was a day in the early spring, when the snows were melting in the +hills, and freshets were sweeping down the valleys far and near. That +night a warm heavy rain came on, and in the morning every stream and +river was swollen to twice its size. The mountains seemed to have +stripped themselves of snow, and the vivid sun began at once to colour +the foothills with green. As Pierre and Macavoy stood at their door, +looking out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy suddenly said: “Aw, +look, look, Pierre--her white duck off to the nest on Champak Hill!” + +They both shaded their eyes with their hands. Circling round two or +three times above the Post, the duck then stretched out its neck to the +west, and floated away beyond Guidon Hill, and was hid from view. + +Pierre, without a word, began cleaning his rifle, while Macavoy smoked, +and sat looking into the distance, surveying the sweet warmth and light. +His face blossomed with colour, and the look of his eyes was that of an +irresponsible child. Once or twice he smiled and puffed in his beard, +but perhaps that was involuntary, or was, maybe, a vague reflection of +his dreams, themselves most vague, for he was only soaking in sun and +air and life. + +Within an hour they saw the wild duck-again passing the crest of Guidon, +and they watched it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling +the gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams. But presently they were +altogether roused, the gun was put away, and both were on their feet; +for after the pigeon arrived there was a stir at the Post, and Hilton +could be seen running from the store to his house, not far away. + +“Something’s wrong there,” said Pierre. + +“D’ye think ‘twas the duck brought it?” asked Macavoy. + +Without a word Pierre started away towards the Post, Macavoy following. +As they did so, a half-breed boy came from the house, hurrying towards +them. + +Inside the house Hilton’s wife lay in her bed, her great hour coming on +before the time, because of ill news from beyond the Guidon. There was +with her an old Frenchwoman, who herself, in her time, had brought many +children into the world, whose heart brooded tenderly, if uncouthly, +over the dumb girl. She it was who had handed to Hilton the paper the +wild duck had brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in a faint on +the floor. + +The message that had felled the young wife was brief and awful. A +cloud-burst had fallen on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and +a part of this part had swept down into the path that led to the little +house, having been stopped by some falling trees and a great boulder. +It blocked the only way to escape above, and beneath, the river was +creeping up to sweep away the little house. So, there the mother and +her children waited (the father was in the farthest north), facing death +below and above. The wild duck had carried the tale in its terrible +simplicity. The last words were, “There mayn’t be any help for me and +my sweet chicks, but I am still hoping, and you must send a man or many. +But send soon, for we are cut off, and the end may come any hour.” + +Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post, and knew from Hilton all there +was to know. At once Pierre began to gather men, though what one or many +could do none could say. Eight white men and three Indians watched the +wild duck sailing away again from the bedroom window where Ida lay, to +carry a word of comfort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida asked for +Macavoy, and he was brought to her bedroom by Hilton. He saw a pale, +almost unearthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling with a coming +agony, looking up at him; and presently two trembling hands made +those mystic signs which are the primal language of the soul. Hilton +interpreted to him this: “I have sent for you. There is no man so big or +strong as you in the north. I did not know that I should ever ask you to +redeem the note. I want my gift, and I will give you your paper with the +Queen’s head on it. Those little lives, those pretty little dears, you +will not see them die. If there is a way, any way, you will save them. +Sometimes one man can do what twenty cannot. You were my wedding-gift: I +claim you now.” + +She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, who laid the piece of brown +paper in Macavoy’s hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as if it +were a fragile bit of glass, something that his huge fingers might crush +by touching. Then he reached over and laid it on the bed beside her and +said, looking Hilton in the eyes, “Tell her, the slip av a saint she is, +if the breakin’ av me bones, or the lettin’ av me blood’s what’ll set +all right at Champak Hill, let her mind be aisy--aw yis!” + +Soon afterwards they were all on their way--all save Hilton, whose duty +was beside this other danger, for the old nurse said that, “like as +not,” her life would hang upon the news from Champak Hill; and if ill +came, his place was beside the speechless traveller on the Brink. + +In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top of Champak Hill, looking +down. There stood the little house, as it were, between two dooms. Even +Pierre’s face became drawn and pale as he saw what a very few hours or +minutes might do. Macavoy had spoken no word, had answered no +question since they had left the Post. There was in his eye the large +seriousness, the intentness which might be found in the face of a brave +boy, who had not learned fear, and yet saw a vast ditch of danger at +which he must leap. There was ever before him the face of the dumb +wife; there was in his ears the sound of pain that had followed him from +Hilton’s house out into the brilliant day. + +The men stood helpless, and looked at each other. They could not say +to the river that it must rise no farther, and they could not go to the +house, nor let a rope down, and there was the crumbled moiety of +the hill which blocked the way to the house: elsewhere it was sheer +precipice without trees. + +There was no corner in these hills that Macavoy and Pierre did not know, +and at last, when despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, having +spoken a low word to Pierre, said: “There’s wan way, an’ maybe I can an’ +maybe I can’t, but I’m fit to try. I’ll go up the river to an aisy p’int +a mile above, get in, and drift down to a p’int below there, thin climb +up and loose the stuff.” + +Every man present knew the double danger: the swift headlong river, and +the sudden rush of rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the side of +the narrow ravine opposite the little house. Macavoy had nothing to say +to the head-shakes of the others, and they did not try to dissuade him; +for women and children were in the question, and there they were +below beside the house, the children gathered round the mother, she +waiting--waiting. + +Macavoy, stripped to the waist, and carrying only a hatchet and a coil +of rope tied round him, started away alone up the river. The others +waited, now and again calling comfort to the woman below, though their +words could not be heard. About half an hour passed, and then someone +called out: “Here he comes!” Presently they could see the rough head and +the bare shoulders of the giant in the wild churning stream. There was +only one point where he could get a hold on the hillside--the jutting +bole of a tree just beneath them, and beneath the dyke of rock and +trees. + +It was a great moment. The current swayed him out, but he plunged +forward, catching at the bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held +him an instant, as he was swung round, then it snapt. But the other hand +clenched the bole, and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, Macavoy +drew himself up. After that they could not see him. He alone was +studying the situation. + +He found the key-rock to the dyked slide of earth. To loosen it was to +divert the slide away, or partly away, from the little house. But it +could not be loosened from above, if at all, and he himself would be in +the path of the destroying hill. + +“Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy,” he said to himself. “It’s the woman and the +darlins av her, an’ the rose o’ the valley down there at the Post!” + +A minute afterwards, having chopped down a hickory sapling, he began to +pry at the boulder which held the mass. Presently a tree came crashing +down, and a small rush of earth followed it, and the hearts of the men +above and the woman and children below stood still for an instant. +An hour passed as Macavoy toiled with a strange careful skill and a +superhuman concentration. His body was all shining with sweat, and sweat +dripped like water from his forehead. His eyes were on the keyrock and +the pile, alert, measuring, intent. At last he paused. He looked round +at the hills-down at the river, up at the sky-humanity was shut away +from his sight. He was alone. A long hot breath broke from his pressed +lips, stirring his big red beard. Then he gave a call, a long call that +echoed through the hills weirdly and solemnly. + +It reached the ears of those above like a greeting from an outside +world. They answered, “Right, Macavoy!” + +Years afterwards these men told how then there came in reply one word, +ringing roundly through the hills--the note and symbol of a crisis, the +fantastic cipher of a soul: + +“M’Guire!” + +There was a loud booming sound, the dyke was loosed, the ravine split +into the swollen stream its choking mouthful of earth and rock; and a +minute afterwards the path was clear to the top of Champak Hill. To it +came the unharmed children and their mother, who, from the warm peak +sent the wild duck “to the rose o’ the valley,” which, till the message +came, was trembling on the stem of life. But Joy, that marvellous +healer, kept it blooming with a little Eden bird nestling near, whose +happy tongue was taught in after years to tell of the gift of the Simple +King; who had redeemed, on demand, the promissory note for ever. + + + + +MALACHI + +“He’ll swing just the same to-morrow. Exit Malachi!” said Freddy Tarlton +gravely. + +The door suddenly opened on the group of gossips, and a man stepped +inside and took the only vacant seat near the fire. He glanced at none, +but stretched out his hands to the heat, looking at the coals with +drooping introspective eyes. + +“Exit Malachi,” he said presently in a soft ironical voice, but did not +look up. + +“By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you spring from?” asked Tarlton +genially. + +“The wind bloweth where it listeth, and--” Pierre responded, with a +little turn of his fingers. + +“And the wind doesn’t tell where it’s been, but that’s no reason Pierre +shouldn’t,” urged the other. + +Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. “He was a tough,” + said a voice from the crowd. “To-morrow he’ll get the breakfast +he’s paid for.” Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with a cold +inquisitive stare. “Mon Dieu!” he said presently, “here’s this Gohawk +playing preacher. What do you know of Malachi, Gohawk? What do any of +you know about Malachi? A little of this, a little of that, a drink +here, a game of euchre there, a ride after cattle, a hunt behind Guidon +Hill!--But what is that? You have heard the cry of the eagle, you have +seen him carry off a lamb, you have had a pot-shot at him, but what do +you know of the eagle’s nest? Mais non. + +“The lamb is one thing, the nest is another. You don’t know the eagle +till you’ve been there. And you, Gohawk, would not understand, if you +saw the nest. Such cancan!” + +“Shut your mouth!” broke out Gohawk. “D’ye think I’m going to stand +your--” + +Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm. “Keep quiet, Gohawk. What good +will it do?” Then he said, “Tell us about the nest, Pierre; they’re +hanging him for the lamb in the morning.” + +“Who spoke for him at the trial?” Pierre asked. + +“I did,” said Tarlton. “I spoke as well as I could, but the game was +dead against him from the start. The sheriff was popular, and young; +young--that was the thing; handsome too, and the women, of course! It +was sure from the start; besides, Malachi would say nothing--didn’t seem +to care.” + +“No, not to care,” mused Pierre. “What did you say for him to the +jury--I mean the devil of a thing to make them sit up and think, ‘Poor +Malachi!’--like that.” + +“Best speech y’ever heard,” Gohawk interjected; “just emptied the words +out, split ‘em like peas, by gol! till he got to one place right before +the end. Then he pulled up sudden, and it got so quiet you could +‘a heard a pin drop. ‘Gen’lemen of the jury,’ says Freddy Tarlton +here--gen’lemen, by gol! all that lot--Lagan and the rest! ‘Gen’lemen of +the jury,’ he says, ‘be you danged well sure that you’re at one with +God A’mighty in this; that you’ve got at the core of justice here; that +you’ve got evidence to satisfy Him who you’ve all got to satisfy some +day, or git out. Not evidence as to shootin’, but evidence as to what +that shootin’ meant, an’ whether it was meant to kill, an’ what for. +The case is like this, gen’lemen of the jury,’ says Freddy Tarlton here. +‘Two men are in a street alone. There’s a shot, out comes everybody, and +sees Fargo the sheriff laid along the ground, his mouth in the dust, and +a full-up gun in his fingers. Not forty feet away stands Malachi with +a gun smokin’ in his fist. It seems to be the opinion that it was +cussedness--just cussedness--that made Malachi turn the sheriff’s boots +to the sun. For Malachi was quarrelsome. I’ll give you a quarter on +that. And the sheriff was mettlesome, used to have high spirits, like as +if he’s lift himself over the fence with his bootstraps. So when Malachi +come and saw the sheriff steppin’ round in his paten’ leathers, it +give him the needle, and he got a bead on him--and away went Sheriff +Fargo--right away! That seems to be the sense of the public.’ And he +stops again, soft and quick, and looks the twelve in the eyes at once. +‘But,’ says Freddy Tarlton here, ‘are you goin’ to hang a man on the +little you know? Or are you goin’ to credit him with somethin’ of what +you don’t know? You haint got the inside of this thing, and Malachi +doesn’t let you know it, and God keeps quiet. But be danged well sure +that you’ve got the bulge on iniquity here; for gen’lemen with pistols +out in the street is one thing, and sittin’ weavin’ a rope in a +court-room for a man’s neck is another thing,’ says Freddy Tarlton here. +‘My client has refused to say one word this or that way, but don’t be +sure that Some One that knows the inside of things won’t speak for +him in the end.’ Then he turns and looks at Malachi, and Malachi was +standin’ still and steady like a tree, but his face was white, and sweat +poured on his forehead. ‘If God has no voice to be heard for my +client in this court-room to-day, is there no one on earth--no man or +woman--who can speak for one who won’t speak for himself?’ says Freddy +Tarlton here. Then, by gol! for the first time Malachi opened. ‘There’s +no one,’ he says. ‘The speakin’ is all for the sheriff. But I spoke +once, and the sheriff didn’t answer.’ Not a bit of beg-yer-pardon in it. +It struck cold. ‘I leave his case in the hands of twelve true men,’ says +Freddy Tarlton here, and he sits down.” + +“So they said he must walk the air?” suggested Pierre. + +“Without leavin’ their seats,” someone added instantly. + +“So. But that speech of ‘Freddy Tarlton here’?” “It was worth twelve +drinks to me, no more, and nothing at all to Malachi,” said Tarlton. +“When I said I’d come to him to-night to cheer him up, he said he’d +rather sleep. The missionary, too, he can make nothing of him. ‘I don’t +need anyone here,’ he says. ‘I eat this off my own plate.’ And that’s +the end of Malachi.” + +“Because there was no one to speak for him--eh? Well, well.” + +“If he’d said anything that’d justify the thing--make it a manslaughter +business or a quarrel--then! But no, not a word, up or down, high or +low. Exit Malachi!” rejoined Freddy Tarlton sorrowfully. “I wish he’d +given me half a chance.” + +“I wish I’d been there,” said Pierre, taking a match from Gohawk, and +lighting his cigarette. + +“To hear his speech?” asked Gohawk, nodding towards Tarlton. + +“To tell the truth about it all. T’sh, you bats, you sheep, what have +you in your skulls? When a man will not speak, will not lie to gain a +case for his lawyer--or save himself, there is something! Now, listen to +me, and I will tell you the story of Malachi. Then you shall judge. + +“I never saw such a face as that girl had down there at Lachine in +Quebec. I knew her when she was a child, and I knew Malachi when he was +on the river with the rafts, the foreman of a gang. He had a look all +open then as the sun--yes. Happy? Yes, as happy as a man ought to be. +Well, the mother of the child died, and Malachi alone was left to take +care of the little Norice. He left the river and went to work in the +mills, so that he might be with the child; and when he got to be foreman +there he used to bring her to the mill. He had a basket swung for her +just inside the mill not far from him, right where she was in the shade; +but if she stretched out her hand it would be in the sun. I’ve seen a +hundred men turn to look at her where she swung, singing to herself, and +then chuckle to themselves afterwards as they worked. + +“When Trevoor, the owner, come one day, and saw her, he swore, and was +going to sack Malachi, but the child--that little Norice--leaned over +the basket, and offered him an apple. He looked for a minute, then +he reached up, took the apple, turned round, and went out of the mill +without a word--so. Next month when he come he walked straight to her, +and handed up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle. ‘That’s to call +me when you want me,’ he said, as he put the whistle to her lips, and +then he put the gold string of it round her neck. She was a wise little +thing, that Norice, and noticed things. I don’t believe that Trevoor or +Malachi ever knew how sweet was the smell of the fresh sawdust till +she held it to their noses; and it was she that had the saws--all +sizes--start one after the other, making so strange a tune. She made up +a little song about fairies and others to sing to that tune. And no one +ever thought much about Indian Island, off beyond the sweating, baking +piles of lumber, and the blistering logs and timbers in the bay, till +she told stories about it. Sure enough, when you saw the shut doors and +open windows of those empty houses, all white without in the sun and +dark within, and not a human to be seen, you could believe almost +anything. You can think how proud Malachi was. She used to get plenty of +presents from the men who had no wives or children to care for--little +silver and gold things as well as others. She was fond of them, but no, +not vain. She loved the gold and silver for their own sake.” + +Pierre paused. “I knew a youngster once,” said Gohawk, “that--” + +Pierre waved his hand. “I am not through, M’sieu’ Gohawk the talker. +Years went on. Now she took care of the house of Malachi. She wore the +whistle that Trevoor gave her. He kept saying to her still, ‘If ever you +need me, little Norice, blow it, and I will come.’ He was droll, that +M’sieu’ Trevoor, at times. Well, she did not blow, but still he used to +come every year, and always brought her something. One year he brought +his nephew, a young fellow of about twenty-three. She did not whistle +for him either, but he kept on coming. That was the beginning of ‘Exit +Malachi.’ The man was clever and bad, the girl believing and good. He +was young, but he knew how to win a woman’s heart. When that is done, +there is nothing more to do--she is yours for good or evil; and if a +man, through a woman’s love, makes her to sin, even his mother cannot +be proud of him-no. But the man married Norice, and took her away to +Madison, down in Wisconsin. Malachi was left alone--Malachi and Trevoor, +for Trevoor felt towards her as a father. + +“Alors, sorrow come to the girl, for her husband began to play cards +and to drink, and he lost much money. There was the trouble--the +two together. They lived in a hotel. One day a lady missed a diamond +necklace from her room. Norice had been with her the evening before. +Norice come into her own room the next afternoon, and found detectives +searching. In her own jewel-case, which was tucked away in the pocket +of an old dress, was found the necklace. She was arrested. She said +nothing--for she waited for her husband, who was out of town that day. +He only come in time to see her in court next morning. She did not deny +anything; she was quiet, like Malachi. The man played his part well. He +had hid the necklace where he thought it would be safe, but when it was +found, he let the wife take the blame--a little innocent thing. People +were sorry for them both. She was sent to jail. Her father was away in +the Rocky Mountains, and he did not hear; Trevoor was in Europe. The +husband got a divorce, and was gone. Norice was in jail for over a year, +and then she was set free, for her health went bad, and her mind was +going, they thought. She did not know till she come out that she was +divorced. Then she nearly died. But then Trevoor come.” + +Freddy Tarlton’s hands were cold with excitement, and his fingers +trembled so he could hardly light a cigar. + +“Go on, go on, Pierre,” he said huskily. + +“Trevoor said to her--he told me this himself--‘Why did you not whistle +for me, Norice? A word would have brought me from Europe.’ ‘No one could +help me, no one at all,’ she answered. Then Trevoor said, ‘I know who +did it, for he has robbed me too.’ She sank in a heap on the floor. ‘I +could have borne it and anything for him, if he hadn’t divorced me,’ +she said. Then they cleared her name before the world. But where was the +man? No one knew. At last Malachi, in the Rocky Mountains, heard of her +trouble, for Norice wrote to him, but told him not to do the man any +harm, if he ever found him--ah, a woman, a woman!... But Malachi met the +man one day at Guidon Hill, and shot him in the street.” + +“Fargo the sheriff!” roared half-a-dozen voices. “Yes; he had changed +his name, had come up here, and because he was clever and spent money, +and had a pull on someone,--got it at cards perhaps,--he was made +sheriff.” + +“In God’s name, why didn’t Malachi speak?” said Tarlton; “why didn’t he +tell me this?” + +“Because he and I had our own plans. The one evidence he wanted was +Norice. If she would come to him in his danger, and in spite of his +killing the man, good. If not, then he would die. Well, I went to find +her and fetch her. I found her. There was no way to send word, so we had +to come on as fast as we could. We have come just in time.” + +“Do you mean to say, Pierre, that she’s here?” said Gohawk. + +Pierre waved his hand emphatically. “And so we came on with a pardon.” + +Every man was on his feet, every man’s tongue was loosed, and each +ordered liquor for Pierre, and asked him where the girl was. Freddy +Tarlton wrung his hand, and called a boy to go to his rooms and bring +three bottles of wine, which he had kept for two years, to drink when he +had won his first big case. + +Gohawk was importunate. “Where is the girl, Pierre?” he urged. + +“Such a fool as you are, Gohawk! She is with her father.” + +A half-hour later, in a large sitting-room, Freddy Tarlton was making +eloquent toasts over the wine. As they all stood drinking to Pierre, +the door opened from the hall-way, and Malachi stood before them. At his +shoulder was a face, wistful, worn, yet with a kind of happiness too; +and the eyes had depths which any man might be glad to drown his heart +in. + +Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe or awkwardness fell on the +group at the table. + +But Norice stepped forward a little, and said: “May we come in?” + +In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side, and had her by the hand, +her and her father, drawing them over. + +His ardent, admiring look gave Norice thought for many a day. + +And that night Pierre made an accurate prophecy. + + + + +THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE + +When Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it was so called, Pierre said: +“Because of the Great Slave;” and then paused. + +Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his whims. If he wished to tell, +he would in his own time; if not, nothing could draw it from him. It was +nearly an hour before Pierre, eased off from the puzzle he was solving +with bits of paper and obliged Tybalt. He began as if they had been +speaking the moment before: + +“They have said it is legend, but I know better. I have seen the records +of the Company, and it is all there. I was at Fort O’Glory once, and in +a box two hundred years old the factor and I found it. There were other +papers, and some of them had large red seals, and a name scrawled along +the end of the page.” + +Pierre shook his head, as if in contented musing. He was a born +story-teller. Tybalt was aching with interest, for he scented a thing of +note. + +“How did any of those papers, signed with a scrawl, begin?” he asked. + +“‘To our dearly-beloved,’ or something like that,” answered Pierre. +“There were letters also. Two of them were full of harsh words, and +these were signed with the scrawl.” + +“What was that scrawl?” asked Tybalt. + +Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two words with his finger. “Like +that,” he answered. + +Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and then drew a long breath. +“Charles Rex,” he said, hardly above his breath. + +Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. “That name was droll, eh?” + +Tybalt’s blood was tingling with the joy of discovery. “It is a great +name,” he said shortly. + +“The Slave was great--the Indians said so at the last.” + +“But that was not the name of the Slave?” + +“Mais non. Who said so! Charles Rex--like that! was the man who wrote +the letters.” + +“To the Great Slave?” + +Pierre made a gesture of impatience. “Very sure.” + +“Where are those letters now?” + +“With the Governor of the Company.” Tybalt cut the tobacco for his +pipe savagely. “You’d have liked one of those papers?” asked Pierre +provokingly. + +“I’d give five hundred dollars for one,” broke out Tybalt. + +Pierre lifted his eyebrows. “T’sh, what’s the good of five hundred +dollars up here? What would you do with a letter like that?” + +Tybalt laughed with a touch of irony, for Pierre was clearly “rubbing it +in.” + +“Perhaps for a book?” gently asked Pierre. + +“Yes, if you like.” + +“It is a pity. But there is a way.” + +“How?” + +“Put me in the book. Then--” + +“How does that touch the case?” + +Pierre shrugged a shoulder gently, for he thought Tybalt was unusually +obtuse. Tybalt thought so himself before the episode ended. + +“Go on,” he said, with clouded brow, but interested eye. Then, as if +with sudden thought: “To whom were the letters addressed, Pierre?” + +“Wait!” was the reply. “One letter said: ‘Good cousin, We are evermore +glad to have thee and thy most excelling mistress near us. So, fail +us not at our cheerful doings, yonder at Highgate.’ Another--a year +after--said: ‘Cousin, for the sweetening of our mind, get thee gone into +some distant corner of our pasturage--the farthest doth please us most. +We would not have thee on foreign ground, for we bear no ill-will to our +brother princes, and yet we would not have thee near our garden of good +loyal souls, for thou hast a rebel heart and a tongue of divers tunes. +Thou lovest not the good old song of duty to thy prince. Obeying us, thy +lady shall keep thine estates untouched; failing obedience, thou wilt +make more than thy prince unhappy. Fare thee well.’ That was the way of +two letters,” said Pierre. + +“How do you remember so?” + +Pierre shrugged a shoulder again. “It is easy with things like that.” + +“But word for word?” + +“I learned it word for word.” + +“Now for the story of the Lake--if you won’t tell me the name of the +man.” + +“The name afterwards-perhaps. Well, he came to that farthest corner of +the pasturage, to the Hudson’s Bay country, two hundred years ago. What +do you think? Was he so sick of all, that he would go so far he could +never get back? Maybe those ‘cheerful doings’ at Highgate, eh? And the +lady--who can tell?” + +Tybalt seized Pierre’s arm. “You know more. Damnation, can’t you see I’m +on needles to hear? Was there anything in the letters about the lady? +Anything more than you’ve told?” + +Pierre liked no man’s hand on him. He glanced down at the eager fingers, +and said coldly: + +“You are a great man; you can tell a story in many ways, but I in one +way alone, and that is my way--mais oui!” + +“Very well, take your own time.” + +“Bien. I got the story from two heads. If you hear a thing like that +from Indians, you call it ‘legend’; if from the Company’s papers, you +call it ‘history.’ Well, in this there is not much difference. The +papers tell precise the facts; the legend gives the feeling, is more +true. How can you judge the facts if you don’t know the feeling? No! +what is bad turns good sometimes, when you know the how, the feeling, +the place. Well, this story of the Great Slave--eh?... There is a race +of Indians in the far north who have hair so brown like yours, m’sieu’, +and eyes no darker. It is said they are of those that lived at the Pole, +before the sea swamped the Isthmus, and swallowed up so many islands. +So. In those days the fair race came to the south for the first time, +that is, far below the Circle. They had their women with them. I have +seen those of to-day: fine and tall, with breasts like apples, and +a cheek to tempt a man like you, m’sieu’; no grease in the hair--no, +M’sieu’ Tybalt.” + +Tybalt sat moveless under the obvious irony, but his eyes were fixed +intently on Pierre, his mind ever travelling far ahead of the tale. + +“Alors: the ‘good cousin’ of Charles Rex, he made a journey with two men +to the Far-off Metal River, and one day this tribe from the north come +on his camp. It was summer, and they were camping in the Valley of the +Young Moon, more sweet, they say, than any in the north. The Indians +cornered them. There was a fight, and one of the Company’s men was +killed, and five of the other. But when the king of the people of the +Pole saw that the great man was fair of face, he called for the fight to +stop. + +“There was a big talk all by signs, and the king said for the great +man to come and be one with them, for they liked his fair face--their +forefathers were fair like him. He should have the noblest of their +women for his wife, and be a prince among them. He would not go: so they +drew away again and fought. A stone-axe brought the great man to the +ground. He was stunned, not killed. Then the other man gave up, and said +he would be one of them if they would take him. They would have killed +him but for one of their women. She said that he should live to tell +them tales of the south country and the strange people, when they came +again to their camp-fires. So they let him live, and he was one of them. +But the chief man, because he was stubborn and scorned them, and had +killed the son of their king in the fight, they made a slave, and +carried him north a captive, till they came to this lake--the Lake of +the Great Slave. + +“In all ways they tried him, but he would not yield, neither to wear +their dress nor to worship their gods. He was robbed of his clothes, of +his gold-handled dagger, his belt of silk and silver, his carbine with +rich chasing, and all, and he was among them almost naked,--it was +summer, as I said, yet defying them. He was taller by a head than any of +them, and his white skin rippled in the sun like soft steel.” + +Tybalt was inclined to ask Pierre how he knew all this, but he held his +peace. Pierre, as if divining his thoughts, continued: + +“You ask how I know these things. Very good: there are the legends, and +there were the papers of the Company. The Indians tried every way, but +it was no use; he would have nothing to say to them. At last they came +to this lake. Now something great occurred. The woman who had been the +wife of the king’s dead son, her heart went out in love of the Great +Slave; but he never looked at her. One day there were great sports, for +it was the feast of the Red Star. The young men did feats of strength, +here on this ground where we sit. The king’s wife called out for the +Great Slave to measure strength with them all. He would not stir. The +king commanded him; still he would not, but stood among them silent and +looking far away over their heads. At last, two young men of good height +and bone threw arrows at his bare breast. The blood came in spots. Then +he gave a cry through his beard, and was on them like a lion. He caught +them, one in each arm, swung them from the ground, and brought their +heads together with a crash, breaking their skulls, and dropped them at +his feet. Catching up a long spear, he waited for the rest. But they did +not come, for, with a loud voice, the king told them to fall back, and +went and felt the bodies of the men. One of them was dead; the other was +his second son--he would live. + +“‘It is a great deed,’ said the king, ‘for these were no children, but +strong men.’ + +“Then again he offered the Great Slave women to marry, and fifty tents +of deerskin for the making of a village. But the Great Slave said no, +and asked to be sent back to Fort O’Glory. + +“The king refused. But that night, as he slept in his tent, the +girl-widow came to him, waked him, and told him to follow her. He came +forth, and she led him softly through the silent camp to that wood which +we see over there. He told her she need not go on. Without a word, she +reached over and kissed him on the breast. Then he understood. He +told her that she could not come with him, for there was that lady in +England--his wife, eh? But never mind, that will come. He was too great +to save his life, or be free at the price. Some are born that way. They +have their own commandments, and they keep them. + +“He told her that she must go back. She gave a little cry, and sank down +at his feet, saying that her life would be in danger if she went back. + +“Then he told her to come, for it was in his mind to bring her to Fort +O’Glory, where she could marry an Indian there. But now she would not +go with him, and turned towards the village. A woman is a strange +creature--yes, like that! He refused to go and leave her. She was in +danger, and he would share it, whatever it might be. So, though she +prayed him not, he went back with her; and when she saw that he would go +in spite of all, she was glad: which is like a woman. + +“When he entered the tent again, he guessed her danger, for he stepped +over the bodies of two dead men. She had killed them. As she turned at +the door to go to her own tent, another woman faced her. It was the wife +of the king, who had suspected, and had now found out. Who can tell +what it was? Jealousy, perhaps. The Great Slave could tell, maybe, if he +could speak, for a man always knows when a woman sets him high. Anyhow, +that was the way it stood. In a moment the girl was marched back to her +tent, and all the camp heard a wicked lie of the widow of the king’s +son. + +“To it there was an end after the way of their laws. + +“The woman should die by fire, and the man, as the king might will. So +there was a great gathering in the place where we are, and the king sat +against that big white stone, which is now as it was then. Silence was +called, and they brought the girl-widow forth. The king spoke: + +“‘Thou who hadst a prince for thy husband, didst go in the night to the +tent of the slave who killed thy husband; whereby thou also becamest a +slave, and didst shame the greatness which was given thee. Thou shalt +die, as has been set in our laws.’ + +“The girl-widow rose, and spoke. ‘I did not know, O king, that he whom +thou madest a slave slew my husband, the prince of our people, and thy +son. That was not told me. But had I known it, still would I have set +him free, for thy son was killed in fair battle, and this man deserves +not slavery or torture. I did seek the tent of the Great Slave, and it +was to set him free--no more. For that did I go, and, for the rest, my +soul is open to the Spirit Who Sees. I have done naught, and never did, +nor ever will, that might shame a king, or the daughter of a king, or +the wife of a king, or a woman. If to set a great captive free is death +for me, then am I ready. I will answer all pure women in the far Camp of +the Great Fires without fear. There is no more, O king, that I may say, +but this: she who dies by fire, being of noble blood, may choose who +shall light the faggots--is it not so?’ + +“Then the king replied: ‘It is so. Such is our law.’ + +“There was counselling between the king and his oldest men, and so long +were they handling the matter backwards and forwards that it seemed she +might go free. But the king’s wife, seeing, came and spoke to the king +and the others, crying out for the honour of her dead son; so that in a +moment of anger they all cried out for death. + +“When the king said again to the girl that she must die by fire, she +answered: ‘It is as the gods will. But it is so, as I said, that I may +choose who shall light the fires?’ + +“The king answered yes, and asked her whom she chose. She pointed +towards the Great Slave. And all, even the king and his councillors, +wondered, for they knew little of the heart of women. What is a man with +a matter like that? Nothing--nothing at all. They would have set this +for punishment: that she should ask for it was beyond them. Yes, even +the king’s wife--it was beyond her. But the girl herself, see you, was +it not this way?--If she died by the hand of him she loved, then it +would be easy, for she could forget the pain, in the thought that his +heart would ache for her, and that at the very last he might care, and +she should see it. She was great in her way also--that girl, two hundred +years ago. + +“Alors, they led her a little distance off,--there is the spot, where +you see the ground heave a little, and the Great Slave was brought up. +The king told him why the girl was to die. He went like stone, looking, +looking at them. He knew that the girl’s heart was like a little +child’s, and the shame and cruelty of the thing froze him silent for a +minute, and the colour flew from his face to here and there on his body, +as a flame on marble. The cords began to beat and throb in his neck and +on his forehead, and his eyes gave out fire like flint on an arrow-head. + +“Then he began to talk. He could not say much, for he knew so little of +their language. But it was ‘No!’ every other word. ‘No--no--no--no!’ the +words ringing from his chest. ‘She is good!’ he said. ‘The other-no!’ +and he made a motion with his hand. ‘She must not die--no! Evil? It is +a lie! I will kill each man that says it, one by one, if he dares come +forth. She tried to save me--well?’ Then he made them know that he was +of high place in a far country, and that a man like him would not tell a +lie. That pleased the king, for he was proud, and he saw that the Slave +was of better stuff than himself. Besides, the king was a brave man, and +he had strength, and more than once he had laid his hand on the chest +of the other, as one might on a grand animal. Perhaps, even then, they +might have spared the girl was it not for the queen. She would not hear +of it. Then they tried the Great Slave, and he was found guilty. The +queen sent him word to beg for pardon. So he stood out and spoke to the +queen. She sat up straight, with pride in her eyes, for was it not a +great prince, as she thought, asking? But a cloud fell on her face, for +he begged the girl’s life. Since there must be death, let him die, and +die by fire in her place! It was then two women cried out: the poor girl +for joy--not at the thought that her life would be saved, but because +she thought the man loved her now, or he would not offer to die for her; +and the queen for hate, because she thought the same. You can guess the +rest: they were both to die, though the king was sorry for the man. + +“The king’s speaker stood out and asked them if they had anything to +say. The girl stepped forward, her face without any fear, but a kind of +noble pride in it, and said: ‘I am ready, O king.’ + +“The Great Slave bowed his head, and was thinking much. They asked him +again, and he waved his hand at them. The king spoke up in anger, and +then he smiled and said: ‘O king, I am not ready; if I die, I die.’ Then +he fell to thinking again. But once more the king spoke: ‘Thou shalt +surely die, but not by fire, nor now; nor till we have come to our great +camp in our own country. There thou shalt die. But the woman shall die +at the going down of the sun. She shall die by fire, and thou shalt +light the faggots for the burning.’ + +“The Great Slave said he would not do it, not though he should die a +hundred deaths. Then the king said that it was the woman’s right to +choose who should start the fire, and he had given his word, which +should not be broken. + +“When the Great Slave heard this he was wild for a little, and then he +guessed altogether what was in the girl’s mind. Was not this the true +thing in her, the very truest? Mais oui! That was what she wished--to +die by his hand rather than by any other; and something troubled his +breast, and a cloud came in his eyes, so that for a moment he could +not see. He looked at the girl, so serious, eye to eye. Perhaps she +understood. So, after a time, he got calm as the farthest light in the +sky, his face shining among them all with a look none could read. He sat +down, and wrote upon pieces of bark with a spear-point--those bits of +bark I have seen also at Fort O’Glory. He pierced them through with +dried strings of the slippery-elm tree, and with the king’s consent gave +them to the Company’s man, who had become one of the people, telling +him, if ever he was free, or could send them to the Company, he must do +so. The man promised, and shame came upon him that he had let the other +suffer alone; and he said he was willing to fight and die if the Great +Slave gave the word. But he would not; and he urged that it was right +for the man to save his life. For himself, no. It could never be; and if +he must die, he must die. + +“You see, a great man must always live alone and die alone, when there +are only such people about him. So, now that the letters were written, +he sat upon the ground and thought, looking often towards the girl, who +was placed apart, with guards near. The king sat thinking also. He could +not guess why the Great Slave should give the letters now, since he was +not yet to die, nor could the Company’s man show a reason when the king +asked him. So the king waited, and told the guards to see that the Great +Slave did not kill himself. + +“But the queen wanted the death of the girl, and was glad beyond telling +that the Slave must light the faggots. She was glad when she saw the +young braves bring a long sapling from the forest, and, digging a hole, +put it stoutly in the ground, and fetch wood, and heap it about. + +“The Great Slave noted that the bark of the sapling had not been +stripped, and more than once he measured, with his eye, the space +between the stake and the shores of the Lake: he did this most private, +so that no one saw but the girl. + +“At last the time was come. The Lake was all rose and gold out there in +the west, and the water so still so still. The cool, moist scent of the +leaves and grass came out from the woods and up from the plain, and the +world was so full of content that a man’s heart could cry out, even as +now, while we look--eh, is it not good? See the deer drinking on +the other shore there!” Suddenly Pierre became silent, as if he had +forgotten the story altogether. Tybalt was impatient, but he did not +speak. He took a twig, and in the sand he wrote “Charles Rex.” Pierre +glanced down and saw it. + +“There was beating of the little drums,” he continued, “and the crying +of the king’s speaker; and soon all was ready, and the people gathered +at a distance, and the king and the queen, and the chief men nearer; and +the girl was brought forth. + +“As they led her past the Great Slave, she looked into his eyes, and +afterwards her heart was glad, for she knew that at the last he would be +near her, and that his hand should light the fires. Two men tied her to +the stake. Then the king’s man cried out again, telling of her crime, +and calling for her death. The Great Slave was brought near. No one knew +that the palms of his hands had been rubbed in the sand for a purpose. +When he was brought beside the stake, a torch was given him by his +guards. He looked at the girl, and she smiled at him, and said: +‘Good-bye. Forgive. I die not afraid, and happy.’ + +“He did not answer, but stooped and lit the sticks here and there. All +at once he snatched a burning stick, and it and the torch he thrust, +like lightning, in the faces of his guards, blinding them. Then he +sprang to the stake, and, with a huge pull, tore it from the ground, +girl and all, and rushed to the shore of the Lake, with her tied so in +his arms. + +“He had been so swift that, at first, no one stirred. He reached the +shore, rushed into the water, dragging a boat out with one hand as he +did so, and, putting the girl in, seized a paddle and was away with a +start. A few strokes, and then he stopped, picked up a hatchet that was +in the boat with many spears, and freed the girl. Then he paddled on, +trusting, with a small hope, that through his great strength he could +keep ahead till darkness came, and then, in the gloom, they might +escape. The girl also seized an oar, and the canoe--the king’s own +canoe--came on like a swallow. + +“But the tribe was after them in fifty canoes, some coming straight +along, some spreading out to close in later. It was no equal game, for +these people were so quick and strong with the oars, and they were a +hundred or more to two. There could be but one end. It was what the +Great Slave had looked for: to fight till the last breath. He should +fight for the woman who had risked all for him--just a common woman of +the north, but it seemed good to lose his life for her; and she would be +happy to die with him. + +“So they stood side by side when the spears and arrows fell round them, +and they gave death and wounds for wounds in their own bodies. When, at +last, the Indians climbed into the canoe, the Great Slave was dead of +many wounds, and the woman, all gashed, lay with her lips to his wet, +red cheek. She smiled as they dragged her away; and her soul hurried +after his to the Camp of the Great Fires.” + +It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last he said: “If I could but +tell it as you have told it to me, Pierre!” Pierre answered: “Tell it +with your tongue, and this shall be nothing to it, for what am I? What +English have I, a gipsy of the snows? But do not write it, mais non! +Writing wanders from the matter. The eyes, and the tongue, and the time, +that is the thing. But in a book--it will sound all cold and thin. It +is for the north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk before a man rolls +into his blanket, and is at peace. No, no writing, monsieur. Speak it +everywhere with your tongue.” + +“And so I would, were my tongue as yours. Pierre, tell me more about the +letters at Fort O’Glory. You know his name--what was it?” + +“You said five hundred dollars for one of those letters. Is it not?” + +“Yes.” Tybalt had a new hope. + +“T’sh! What do I want of five hundred dollars! But, here, answer me a +question: Was the lady--his wife, she that was left in England--a good +woman? Answer me out of your own sense, and from my story. If you say +right you shall have a letter--one that I have by me.” + +Tybalt’s heart leapt into his throat. After a little he said huskily: +“She was a good woman--he believed her that, and so shall I.” + +“You think he could not have been so great unless, eh? And that ‘Charles +Rex,’ what of him?” + +“What good can it do to call him bad now?” Without a word, Pierre drew +from a leather wallet a letter, and, by the light of the fast-setting +sun, Tybalt read it, then read it again, and yet again. + +“Poor soul! poor lady!” he said. “Was ever such another letter written +to any man? And it came too late; this, with the king’s recall, came too +late!” + +“So--so. He died out there where that wild duck flies--a Great Slave. +Years after, the Company’s man brought word of all.” + +Tybalt was looking at the name on the outside of the letter. + +“How do they call that name?” asked Pierre. “It is like none I’ve +seen--no.” + +Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did not answer. + + + + +THE RED PATROL + +St. Augustine’s, Canterbury, had given him its licentiate’s hood, the +Bishop of Rupert’s Land had ordained him, and the North had swallowed +him up. He had gone forth with surplice, stole, hood, a sermon-case, the +prayer-book, and that other Book of all. Indian camps, trappers’ huts, +and Company’s posts had given him hospitality, and had heard him with +patience and consideration. At first he wore the surplice, stole, and +hood, took the eastward position, and intoned the service, and no man +said him nay, but watched him curiously and was sorrowful--he was so +youthful, clear of eye, and bent on doing heroical things. + +But little by little there came a change. The hood was left behind at +Fort O’Glory, where it provoked the derision of the Methodist missionary +who followed him; the sermon-case stayed at Fort O’Battle; and at last +the surplice itself was put by at the Company’s post at Yellow Quill. +He was too excited and in earnest at first to see the effect of his +ministrations, but there came slowly over him the knowledge that he was +talking into space. He felt something returning on him out of the air +into which he talked, and buffeting him. It was the Spirit of the North, +in which lives the terror, the large heart of things, the soul of the +past. He awoke to his inadequacy, to the fact that all these men to +whom he talked, listened, and only listened, and treated him with a +gentleness which was almost pity--as one might a woman. He had talked +doctrine, the Church, the sacraments, and at Fort O’Battle he +faced definitely the futility of his work. What was to blame--the +Church--religion--himself? + +It was at Fort O’Battle that he met Pierre, and heard a voice say over +his shoulder, as he walked out into the icy dusk: “The voice of one +crying in the wilderness... and he had sackcloth about his loins, and +his food was locusts and wild honey.” + +He turned to see Pierre, who in the large room of the Post had sat and +watched him as he prayed and preached. He had remarked the keen, curious +eye, the musing look, the habitual disdain at the lips. It had all +touched him, confused him; and now he had a kind of anger. + +“You know it so well, why don’t you preach yourself?” he said +feverishly. + +“I have been preaching all my life,” Pierre answered drily. + +“The devil’s games: cards and law-breaking; and you sneer at men who try +to bring lost sheep into the fold.” + +“The fold of the Church--yes, I understand all that,” Pierre answered. +“I have heard you and the priests of my father’s Church talk. Which is +right? But as for me, I am a missionary. Cards, law-breaking--these are +what I have done; but these are not what I have preached.” + +“What have you preached?” asked the other, walking on into the +fast-gathering night, beyond the Post and the Indian lodges, into the +wastes where frost and silence lived. + +Pierre waved his hand towards space. “This,” he said suggestively. + +“What’s this?” asked the other fretfully. + +“The thing you feel round you here.” + +“I feel the cold,” was the petulant reply. + +“I feel the immense, the far off,” said Pierre slowly. + +The other did not understand as yet. “You’ve learned big words,” he said +disdainfully. + +“No; big things,” rejoined Pierre sharply--“a few.” + +“Let me hear you preach them,” half snarled Sherburne. + +“You will not like to hear them--no.” + +“I’m not likely to think about them one way or another,” was the +contemptuous reply. + +Pierre’s eyes half closed. The young, impetuous half-baked college man. +To set his little knowledge against his own studious vagabondage! At +that instant he determined to play a game and win; to turn this man into +a vagabond also; to see John the Baptist become a Bedouin. He saw the +doubt, the uncertainty, the shattered vanity in the youth’s mind, the +missionary’s half retreat from his cause. A crisis was at hand. The +youth was fretful with his great theme, instead of being severe upon +himself. For days and days Pierre’s presence had acted on Sherburne +silently but forcibly. He had listened to the vagabond’s philosophy, and +knew that it was of a deeper--so much deeper--knowledge of life than he +himself possessed, and he knew also that it was terribly true; he was +not wise enough to see that it was only true in part. The influence +had been insidious, delicate, cunning, and he himself was only “a voice +crying in the wilderness,” without the simple creed of that voice. He +knew that the Methodist missionary was believed in more, if less liked, +than himself. Pierre would work now with all the latent devilry of his +nature to unseat the man from his saddle. + +“You have missed the great thing, alors, though you have been up here +two years,” he said. “You do not feel, you do not know. What good have +you done? Who has got on his knees and changed his life because of you? +Who has told his beads or longed for the Mass because of you? Tell me, +who has ever said, ‘You have showed me how to live’? Even the women, +though they cry sometimes when you sing-song the prayers, go on just +the same when the little ‘bless-you’ is over. Why? Most of them know a +better thing than you tell them. Here is the truth: you are little--eh, +so very little. You never lied--direct; you never stole the waters that +are sweet; you never knew the big dreams that come with wine in the dead +of night; you never swore at your own soul and heard it laugh back at +you; you never put your face in the breast of a woman--do not look so +wild at me!--you never had a child; you never saw the world and yourself +through the doors of real life. You never have said, ‘I am tired; I +am sick of all; I have seen all.’ You have never felt what came +after--understanding. Chut, your talk is for children--and missionaries. +You are a prophet without a call, you are a leader without a man to +lead, you are less than a child up here. For here the children feel a +peace in their blood when the stars come out, and a joy in their brains +when the dawn comes up and reaches a yellow hand to the Pole, and the +west wind shouts at them. Holy Mother! we in the far north, we feel +things, for all the great souls of the dead are up there at the Pole in +the pleasant land, and we have seen the Scarlet Hunter and the Kimash +Hills. You have seen nothing. You have only heard, and because, like a +child, you have never sinned, you come and preach to us!” + +The night was folding down fast, all the stars were shooting out into +their places, and in the north the white lights of the aurora were +flying to and fro. Pierre had spoken with a slow force and precision, +yet, as he went on, his eyes almost became fixed on those shifting +flames, and a deep look came into them, as he was moved by his own +eloquence. Never in his life had he made so long a speech at once. He +paused, and then said suddenly: “Come, let us run.” + +He broke into a long, sliding trot, and Sherburne did the same. With +their arms gathered to their sides they ran for quite two miles without +a word, until the heavy breathing of the clergyman brought Pierre up +suddenly. + +“You do not run well,” he said; “you do not run with the whole body. You +know so little. Did you ever think how much such men as Jacques Parfaite +know? The earth they read like a book, the sky like an animal’s ways, +and a man’s face like--like the writing on the wall.” + +“Like the writing on the wall,” said Sherburne, musing; for, under the +other’s influence, his petulance was gone. He knew that he was not a +part of this life, that he was ignorant of it; of, indeed, all that was +vital in it and in men and women. + +“I think you began this too soon. You should have waited; then you might +have done good. But here we are wiser than you. You have no message--no +real message--to give us; down in your heart you are not even sure of +yourself.” + +Sherburne sighed. “I’m of no use,” he said. “I’ll get out. I’m no good +at all.” + +Pierre’s eyes glistened. He remembered how, the day before, this youth +had said hot words about his card-playing; had called him--in effect--a +thief; had treated him as an inferior, as became one who was of St. +Augustine’s, Canterbury. + +“It is the great thing to be free,” Pierre said, “that no man shall look +for this or that of you. Just to do as far as you feel, as far as you +are sure--that is the best. In this you are not sure--no. Hein, is it +not?” + +Sherburne did not answer. Anger, distrust, wretchedness, the spirit of +the alien, loneliness, were alive in him. The magnetism of this deep +penetrating man, possessed of a devil, was on him, and in spite of every +reasonable instinct he turned to him for companionship. + +“It’s been a failure,” he burst out, “and I’m sick of it--sick of it; +but I can’t give it up.” + +Pierre said nothing. They had come to what seemed a vast semicircle of +ice and snow, a huge amphitheatre in the plains. It was wonderful: a +great round wall on which the northern lights played, into which the +stars peered. It was open towards the north, and in one side was a +fissure shaped like a Gothic arch. Pierre pointed to it, and they did +not speak till they had passed through it. Like great seats the steppes +of snow ranged round, and in the centre was a kind of plateau of ice, +as it might seem a stage or an altar. To the north there was a great +opening, the lost arc of the circle, through which the mystery of the +Pole swept in and out, or brooded there where no man may question it. +Pierre stood and looked. Time and again he had been here, and had asked +the same question: Who had ever sat on those frozen benches and looked +down at the drama on that stage below? Who played the parts? Was it a +farce or a sacrifice? To him had been given the sorrow of imagination, +and he wondered and wondered. Or did they come still--those strange +people, whoever they were--and watch ghostly gladiators at their fatal +sport? If they came, when was it? Perhaps they were there now unseen. In +spite of himself he shuddered. Who was the keeper of the house? + +Through his mind there ran--pregnant to him for the first tine--a +chanson of the Scarlet Hunter, the Red Patrol, who guarded the sleepers +in the Kimash Hills against the time they should awake and possess the +land once more: the friend of the lost, the lover of the vagabond, and +of all who had no home: + + “Strangers come to the outer walls-- + (Why do the sleepers stir?) + Strangers enter the Judgment House-- + (Why do the sleepers sigh?) + Slow they rise in their judgment seats, + Sieve and measure the naked souls, + Then with a blessing return to sleep-- + (Quiet the Judgment House.) + Lone and sick are the vagrant souls-- + (When shall the world come home?)” + +He reflected upon the words, and a feeling of awe came over him, for he +had been in the White Valley and had seen the Scarlet Hunter. But +there came at once also a sinister desire to play a game for this man’s +life-work here. He knew that the other was ready for any wild move; +there was upon him the sense of failure and disgust; he was acted on +by the magic of the night, the terrible delight of the scene, and that +might be turned to advantage. + +He said: “Am I not right? There is something in the world greater than +the creeds and the book of the Mass. To be free and to enjoy, that is +the thing. Never before have you felt what you feel here now. And I will +show you more. I will teach you how to know, I will lead you through all +the north and make you to understand the big things of life. Then, when +you have known, you can return if you will. But now--see: I will tell +you what I will do. Here on this great platform we will play a game of +cards. There is a man whose life I can ruin. If you win I promise to +leave him safe; and to go out of the far north for ever, to go back to +Quebec”--he had a kind of gaming fever in his veins. “If I win, you give +up the Church, leaving behind the prayerbook, the Bible and all, coming +with me to do what I shall tell you, for the passing of twelve moons. +It is a great stake--will you play it? Come”--he leaned forward, looking +into the other’s face--“will you play it? They drew lots--those people +in the Bible. We will draw lots, and see, eh?--and see?” + +“I accept the stake,” said Sherburne, with a little gasp. + +Without a word they went upon that platform, shaped like an altar, +and Pierre at once drew out a pack of cards, shuffling them with his +mittened hands. Then he knelt down and said, as he laid out the cards +one by one till there were thirty: “Whoever gets the ace of hearts +first, wins--hein?” + +Sherburne nodded and knelt also. The cards lay back upwards in three +rows. For a moment neither stirred. The white, metallic stars saw it, +the small crescent moon beheld it, and the deep wonder of night made it +strange and dreadful. Once or twice Sherburne looked round as though he +felt others present, and once Pierre looked out to the wide portals, +as though he saw some one entering. But there was nothing to the +eye--nothing. Presently Pierre said: “Begin.” + +The other drew a card, then Pierre drew one, then the other, then Pierre +again; and so on. How slow the game was! Neither hurried, but both, +kneeling, looked and looked at the card long before drawing and turning +it over. The stake was weighty, and Pierre loved the game more than he +cared about the stake. Sherburne cared nothing about the game, but all +his soul seemed set upon the hazard. There was not a sound out of the +night, nothing stirring but the Spirit of the North. Twenty, twenty-five +cards were drawn, and then Pierre paused. + +“In a minute all will be settled,” he said. “Will you go on, or will you +pause?” + +But Sherburne had got the madness of chance in his veins now, and he +said: “Quick, quick, go on!” Pierre drew, but the great card held back. +Sherburne drew, then Pierre again. There were three left. Sherburne’s +face was as white as the snow around him. His mouth was open, and a +little white cloud of frosted breath came out. His hand hungered for +the card, drew back, then seized it. A moan broke from him. Then Pierre, +with a little weird laugh, reached out and turned over the ace of +hearts! + +They both stood up. Pierre put the cards in his pocket. + +“You have lost,” he said. + +Sherburne threw back his head with a reckless laugh. The laugh seemed to +echo and echo through the amphitheatre, and then from the frozen seats, +the hillocks of ice and snow, there was a long, low sound, as of sorrow, +and a voice came after: + +“Sleep--sleep! Blessed be the just and the keepers of vows.” + +Sherburne stood shaking, as though he had seen a host of spirits. His +eyes on the great seats of judgment, he said to Pierre: + +“See, see, how they sit there, grey and cold and awful!” + +But Pierre shook his head. + +“There is nothing,” he said, “nothing;” yet he knew that Sherburne was +looking upon the men of judgment of the Kimash Hills, the sleepers. He +looked round, half fearfully, for if here were those great children of +the ages, where was the keeper of the house, the Red Patrol? + +Even as he thought, a figure in scarlet with a noble face and a high +pride of bearing stood before them, not far away. Sherburne clutched his +arm. + +Then the Red Patrol, the Scarlet Hunter spoke: “Why have you sinned your +sins and broken your vows within our house of judgment? Know ye not that +in the new springtime of the world ye shall be outcast, because ye have +called the sleepers to judgment before their time? But I am the hunter +of the lost. Go you,” he said to Sherburne, pointing, “where a sick man +lies in a hut in the Shikam Valley. In his soul find thine own again.” + Then to Pierre: “For thee, thou shalt know the desert and the storm and +the lonely hills; thou shalt neither seek nor find. Go, and return no +more.” + +The two men, Sherburne falteringly, stepped down and moved to the open +plain. They turned at the great entrance and looked back. Where they had +stood there rested on his long bow the Red Patrol. He raised it, and a +flaming arrow flew through the sky towards the south. They followed +its course, and when they looked back a little afterwards, the great +judgment-house was empty, and the whole north was silent as the +sleepers. + +At dawn they came to the hut in the Shikam Valley, and there they found +a trapper dying. He had sinned greatly, and he could not die without +someone to show him how, to tell him what to say to the angel of the +cross-roads. + +Sherburne, kneeling by him, felt his own new soul moved by a holy fire, +and, first praying for himself, he said to the sick man: “For if we +confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to +cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” + +Praying for both, his heart grew strong, and he heard the sick man say, +ere he journeyed forth to the crossroads: + +“You have shown me the way. I have peace.” + +“Speak for me in the Presence,” said Sherburne softly. + +The dying man could not answer, but that moment, as he journeyed forth +on the Far Trail, he held Sherburne’s hand. + + + + +THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN + +“Why don’t she come back, father?” + +The man shook his head, his hand fumbled with the wolf-skin robe +covering the child, and he made no reply. “She’d come if she knew I was +hurted, wouldn’t she?” + +The father nodded, and then turned restlessly toward the door, as though +expecting someone. The look was troubled, and the pipe he held was not +alight, though he made a pretence of smoking. + +“Suppose the wild cat had got me, she’d be sorry when she comes, +wouldn’t she?” + +There was no reply yet, save by gesture, the language of primitive man; +but the big body shivered a little, and the uncouth hand felt for a +place in the bed where the lad’s knee made a lump under the robe. He +felt the little heap tenderly, but the child winced. + +“S-sh, but that hurts! This wolf-skin’s most too much on me, isn’t it, +father?” + +The man softly, yet awkwardly too, lifted the robe, folded it back, +and slowly uncovered the knee. The leg was worn away almost to skin and +bone, but the knee itself was swollen with inflammation. He bathed +it with some water, mixed with vinegar and herbs, then drew down the +deer-skin shirt at the child’s shoulder, and did the same with it. Both +shoulder and knee bore the marks of teeth--where a huge wild cat had +made havoc--and the body had long red scratches. + +Presently the man shook his head sorrowfully, and covered up the small +disfigured frame again, but this time with a tanned skin of the caribou. +The flames of the huge wood fire dashed the walls and floor with a +velvety red and black, and the large iron kettle, bought of the Company +at Fort Sacrament, puffed out geysers of steam. + +The place was a low but with parchment windows and rough mud-mortar +lumped between the logs. Skins hung along two sides, with bullet-holes +and knife-holes showing: of the great grey wolf, the red puma, the +bronze hill-lion, the beaver, the bear, and the sable; and in one corner +was a huge pile of them. Bare of the usual comforts as the room was, it +had a sort of refinement also, joined to an inexpressible loneliness; +you could scarce have told how or why. + +“Father,” said the boy, his face pinched with pain for a moment, “it +hurts so all over, every once in a while.” + +His fingers caressed the leg just below the knee. “Father,” he suddenly +added, “what does it mean when you hear a bird sing in the middle of +the night?” The woodsman looked down anxiously into the boy’s face. “It +hasn’t no meaning, Dominique. There ain’t such a thing on the Labrador +Heights as a bird singin’ in the night. That’s only in warm countries +where there’s nightingales. So--bien sur!” + +The boy had a wise, dreamy, speculative look. “Well, I guess it was a +nightingale--it didn’t sing like any I ever heard.” + +The look of nervousness deepened in the woodsman’s face. “What did it +sing like, Dominique?” + +“So it made you shiver. You wanted it to go on, and yet you didn’t want +it. It was pretty, but you felt as if something was going to snap inside +of you.” + +“When did you hear it, my son?” + +“Twice last night--and--and I guess it was Sunday the other time. I +don’t know, for there hasn’t been no Sunday up here since mother went +away--has there?” + +“Mebbe not.” + +The veins were beating like live cords in the man’s throat and at his +temples. + +“‘Twas just the same as Father Corraine bein’ here, when mother had +Sunday, wasn’t it?” + +The man made no reply, but a gloom drew down his forehead, and his lips +doubled in as if he endured physical pain. He got to his feet and paced +the floor. For weeks he had listened to the same kind of talk from this +wounded, and, as he thought, dying son, and he was getting less and less +able to bear it. The boy at nine years of age was, in manner of speech, +the merest child, but his thoughts were sometimes large and wise. The +only white child within a compass of three hundred miles or so; the +lonely life of the hills and plains, so austere in winter, so melted to +a sober joy in summer; listening to the talk of his elders at camp-fires +and on the hunting-trail, when, even as an infant almost, he was swung +in a blanket from a tree or was packed in the torch-crane of a canoe; +and, more than all, the care of a good, loving--if passionate--little +mother: all these had made him far wiser than his years. He had been +hours upon hours each day alone with the birds, and squirrels, and wild +animals, and something of the keen scent and instinct of the animal +world had entered into his body and brain, so that he felt what he could +not understand. + +He saw that he had worried his father, and it troubled him. He thought +of something. “Daddy,” he said, “let me have it.” + +A smile struggled for life in the hunter’s face, as he turned to the +wall and took down the skin of a silver fox. He held it on his palm for +a moment, looking at it in an interested, satisfied way, then he brought +it over and put it into the child’s hands; and the smile now shaped +itself, as he saw an eager pale face buried in the soft fur. + +“Good! good!” he said involuntarily. + +“Bon! bon!” said the boy’s voice from the fur, in the language of his +mother, who added a strain of Indian blood to her French ancestry. + +The two sat there, the man half-kneeling on the low bed, and stroking +the fur very gently. It could scarcely be thought that such pride should +be spent on a little pelt by a mere backwoodsman and his nine-year-old +son. One has seen a woman fingering a splendid necklace, her eyes +fascinated by the bunch of warm, deep jewels--a light not of mere +vanity, or hunger, or avarice in her face--only the love of the +beautiful thing. But this was an animal’s skin. Did they feel the animal +underneath it yet, giving it beauty, life, glory? + +The silver-fox skin is the prize of the north, and this one was of the +boy’s own harvesting. While his father was away he saw the fox creeping +by the hut. The joy of the hunter seized him, and guided his eye +over the sights of his father’s rifle, as he rested the barrel on the +window-sill, and the animal was his! Now his finger ran into the hole +made by the bullet, and he gave a little laugh of modest triumph. +Minutes passed as they studied, felt, and admired the skin, the hunter +proud of his son, the son alive with a primitive passion, which inflicts +suffering to get the beautiful thing. Perhaps the tenderness as well as +the wild passion of the animal gets into the hunter’s blood, and tips +his fingers at times with an exquisite kindness--as one has noted in a +lion fondling her young, or in tigers as they sport upon the sands of +the desert. This boy had seen his father shoot a splendid moose, and as +it lay dying, drop down and kiss it in the neck for sheer love of +its handsomeness. Death is no insult. It is the law of the primitive +world--war, and love in war. + +They sat there for a long time, not speaking, each busy in his own +way: the boy full of imaginings, strange, half-heathen, half-angelic +feelings; the man roaming in that savage, romantic, superstitious +atmosphere which belongs to the north, and to the north alone. At last +the boy lay back on the pillow, his finger still in the bullet-hole +of the pelt. His eyes closed, and he seemed about to fall asleep, but +presently looked up and whispered: “I haven’t said my prayers, have I?” + +The father shook his head in a sort of rude confusion. + +“I can pray out loud if I want to, can’t I?” + +“Of course, Dominique.” The man shrank a little. + +“I forget a good many times, but I know one all right, for I said it +when the bird was singing. It isn’t one out of the book Father Corraine +sent mother by Pretty Pierre; it’s one she taught me out of her own +head. P’r’aps I’d better say it.” + +“P’r’aps, if you want to.” The voice was husky. The boy began: + +“O bon Jesu, who died to save us from our sins, and to lead us to Thy +country, where there is no cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where no +one is afraid, listen to Thy child.... When the great winds and rains +come down from the hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor the woods +cover us, nor the snow-slide bury us; and do not let the prairie-fires +burn us. Keep wild beasts from killing us in our sleep, and give us good +hearts that we may not kill them in anger.” + +His finger twisted involuntarily into the bullet-hole in the pelt, and +he paused a moment. + +“Keep us from getting lost, O gracious Saviour.” Again there was a +pause, his eyes opened wide, and he said: + +“Do you think mother’s lost, father?” + +A heavy broken breath came from the father, and he replied haltingly: +“Mebbe, mebbe so.” + +Dominique’s eyes closed again. “I’ll make up some,” he said slowly. “And +if mother’s lost, bring her back again to us, for everything’s going +wrong.” + +Again he paused, then went on with the prayer as it had been taught him. + +“Teach us to hear Thee whenever Thou callest, and to see Thee when Thou +visitest us, and let the blessed Mary and all the saints speak often to +Thee for us. O Christ, hear us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ have +mercy upon us. Amen.” + +Making the sign of the cross, he lay back, and said “I’ll go to sleep +now, I guess.” + +The man sat for a long time looking at the pale, shining face, at the +blue veins showing painfully dark on the temples and forehead, at the +firm little white hand, which was as brown as a butternut a few weeks +before. The longer he sat, the deeper did his misery sink into his soul. +His wife had gone, he knew not where, his child was wasting to death, +and he had for his sorrows no inner consolation. He had ever had that +touch of mystical imagination inseparable from the far north, yet he had +none of that religious belief which swallowed up natural awe and turned +it to the refining of life, and to the advantage of a man’s soul. Now it +was forced in upon him that his child was wiser than himself, wiser +and safer. His life had been spent in the wastes, with rough deeds +and rugged habits, and a youth of hardship, danger, and almost savage +endurance, had given him a half-barbarian temperament, which could +strike an angry blow at one moment and fondle to death at the next. + +When he married sweet Lucette Barbond his religion reached little +farther than a belief in the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills and +those voices that could be heard calling in the night, till their time +of sleep be past, and they should rise and reconquer the north. + +Not even Father Corraine, whose ways were like those of his Master, +could ever bring him to a more definite faith. His wife had at first +striven with him, mourning yet loving. Sometimes the savage in him had +broken out over the little creature, merely because barbaric tyranny +was in him--torture followed by the passionate kiss. But how was she +philosopher enough to understand the cause? + +When she fled from their hut one bitter day, as he roared some wild +words at her, it was because her nerves had all been shaken from +threatened death by wild beasts (of which he did not know), and his +violence drove her mad. She had run out of the house, and on, and on, +and on--and she had never come back. That was weeks ago, and there had +been no word nor sign of her since. The man was now busy with it all, in +a slow, cumbrous way. A nature more to be touched by things seen than by +things told, his mind was being awakened in a massive kind of fashion. +He was viewing this crisis of his life as one sees a human face in +the wide searching light of a great fire. He was restless, but he held +himself still by a strong effort, not wishing to disturb the sleeper. +His eyes seemed to retreat farther and farther back under his shaggy +brows. + +The great logs in the chimney burned brilliantly, and a brass crucifix +over the child’s head now and again reflected soft little flashes of +light. This caught the hunter’s eye. Presently there grew up in him a +vague kind of hope that, somehow, this symbol would bring him luck--that +was the way he put it to himself. He had felt this--and something +more--when Dominique prayed. Somehow, Dominique’s prayer was the only +one he had ever heard that had gone home to him, had opened up the big +sluices of his nature, and let the light of God flood in. No, there was +another: the one Lucette made on the day that they were married, when a +wonderful timid reverence played through his hungry love for her. + +Hours passed. All at once, without any other motion or gesture, the +boy’s eyes opened wide with a strange, intense look. + +“Father,” he said slowly, and in a kind of dream, “when you hear a sweet +horn blow at night, is it the Scarlet Hunter calling?” + +“P’r’aps. Why, Dominique?” He made up his mind to humour the boy, though +it gave him strange aching forebodings. He had seen grown men and women +with these fancies--and they had died. + +“I heard one blowing just now, and the sounds seemed to wave over my +head. Perhaps he’s calling someone that’s lost.” + +“Mebbe.” + +“And I heard a voice singing--it wasn’t a bird tonight.” + +“There was no voice, Dominique.” + +“Yes, yes.” There was something fine in the grave, courteous certainty +of the lad. “I waked and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut my +eyes again, and I heard the voice. I remember the tune and the words.” + +“What were the words?” In spite of himself the hunter felt awed. + +“I’ve heard mother sing them, or something most like them: + + “Why does the fire no longer burn? + (I am so lonely.) + Why does the tent-door swing outward? + (I have no home.) + Oh, let me breathe hard in your face! + (I am so lonely.) + Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me? + (I have no home.)” + +The boy paused. + +“Was that all, Dominique?” + +“No, not all.” + + “Let us make friends with the stars; + (I am so lonely.) + Give me your hand, I will hold it. + (I have no home.) + Let us go hunting together. + (I am so lonely.) + We will sleep at God’s camp to-night. + (I have no home.)” + +Dominique did not sing, but recited the words with a sort of chanting +inflection. + +“What does it mean when you hear a voice like that, father?” + +“I don’t know. Who told--your mother--the song?” + +“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose she just made them up--she and God.... +There! There it is again? Don’t you hear it--don’t you hear it, daddy?” + +“No, Dominique, it’s only the kettle singing.” + +“A kettle isn’t a voice. Daddy--” He paused a little, then went on, +hesitatingly--“I saw a white swan fly through the door over your +shoulder, when you came in to-night.” + +“No, no, Dominique; it was a flurry of snow blowing over my shoulder.” + +“But it looked at me with two shining eyes.” + +“That was two stars shining through the door, my son.” + +“How could there be snow flying and stars shining too, father?” + +“It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but the stars were shining +above, Dominique.” + +The man’s voice was anxious and unconvincing, his eyes had a hungry, +hunted look. The legend of the White Swan had to do with the passing of +a human soul. The swan had come in--would it go out alone? He touched +the boy’s hand--it was hot with fever; he felt the pulse--it ran high; +he watched the face--it had a glowing light. Something stirred within +him, and passed like a wave to the farthest courses of his being. +Through his misery he had touched the garment of the Master of Souls. As +though a voice said to him there, “Someone hath touched me,” he got to +his feet, and, with a sudden blind humility, lit two candles, placed +them on a shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure of the Virgin, as +he had seen his wife do. Then he picked a small handful of fresh spruce +twigs from a branch over the chimney, and laid them beside the candles. +After a short pause he came slowly to the head of the boy’s bed. Very +solemnly he touched the foot of the Christ on the cross with the tips +of his fingers, and brought them to his lips with an indescribable +reverence. After a moment, standing with eyes fixed on the face of the +crucified figure, he said, in a shaking voice: + +“Pardon, bon Jesu! Sauvez mon enfant! Ne me laissez pas seul!” + +The boy looked up with eyes again grown unnaturally heavy, and said: + +“Amen!... Bon Jesu!... Encore! Encore, mon pere!” + +The boy slept. The father stood still by the bed for a time, but at last +slowly turned and went toward the fire. + +Outside, two figures were approaching the hut--a man and a woman; yet at +first glance the man might easily have been taken for a woman, because +of the long black robe which he wore, and because his hair fell loose on +his shoulders and his face was clean-shaven. + +“Have patience, my daughter,” said the man. “Do not enter till I call +you. But stand close to the door, if you will, and hear all.” + +So saying he raised his hand as in a kind of benediction, passed to the +door, and after tapping very softly, opened it, entered, and closed it +behind him-not so quickly, however, but that the woman caught a glimpse +of the father and the boy. In her eyes there was the divine look of +motherhood. + +“Peace be to this house!” said the man gently as he stepped forward from +the door. + +The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on him, as if he had seen a +spirit. + +“M’sieu’ le cure!” he said in French, with an accent much poorer than +that of the priest, or even of his own son. He had learned French from +his wife; he himself was English. + +The priest’s quick eye had taken in the lighted candles at the little +shrine, even as he saw the painfully changed aspect of the man. + +“The wife and child, Bagot?” he asked, looking round. “Ah, the boy!” he +added, and going toward the bed, continued, presently, in a low voice: +“Dominique is ill?” + +Bagot nodded, and then answered: “A wild-cat and then fever, Father +Corraine.” + +The priest felt the boy’s pulse softly, then with a close personal look +he spoke hardly above his breath, yet distinctly too: + +“Your wife, Bagot?” + +“She is not here, m’sieu’.” The voice was low and gloomy. + +“Where is she, Bagot?” + +“I do not know, m’sieu’.” + +“When did you see her last?” + +“Four weeks ago, m’sieu’.” + +“That was September, this is October--winter. On the ranches they let +their cattle loose upon the plains in winter, knowing not where they go, +yet looking for them to return in the spring. But a woman--a woman and +a wife--is different.... Bagot, you have been a rough, hard man, and you +have been a stranger to your God, but I thought you loved your wife and +child!” + +The hunter’s hands clenched, and a wicked light flashed up into his +eyes; but the calm, benignant gaze of the other cooled the tempest in +his veins. The priest sat down on the couch where the child lay, and +took the fevered hand in his very softly. + +“Stay where you are, Bagot,” he said; “just there where you are, and +tell me what your trouble is, and why your wife is not here.... Say all +honestly--by the name of the Christ!” he added, lifting up a large iron +crucifix that hung on his breast. + +Bagot sat down on a bench near the fireplace, the light playing on his +bronzed, powerful face, his eyes shining beneath his heavy brows like +two coals. After a moment he began: + +“I don’t know how it started. I’d lost a lot of pelts--stolen they were, +down on the Child o’ Sin River. Well, she was hasty and nervous, like +as not--she always was brisker and more sudden than I am. I--I laid my +powder-horn and whisky-flask-up there!” + +He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin, where now his candles +were burning. The priest’s grave eyes did not change expression at all, +but looked out wisely, as though he understood everything before it was +told. + +Bagot continued: “I didn’t notice it, but she had put some flowers +there. She said something with an edge, her face all snapping angry, +threw the things down, and called me a heathen and a wicked heretic--and +I don’t say now but she’d a right to do it. But I let out then, for them +stolen pelts were rasping me on the raw. I said something pretty rough, +and made as if I was goin’ to break her in two--just fetched up my +hands, and went like this!--” With a singular simplicity he made a wild +gesture with his hands, and an animal-like snarl came from his throat. +Then he looked at the priest with the honest intensity of a boy. + +“Yes, that is what you did--what was it you said which was ‘pretty +rough’?” + +There was a slight hesitation, then came the reply: “I said there was +enough powder spilt on the floor to kill all the priests in heaven.” + +A fire suddenly shot up into Father Corraine’s face, and his lips +tightened for an instant, but presently he was as before, and he said: + +“How that will face you one day, Bagot! Go on. What else?” + +Sweat began to break out on Bagot’s face, and he spoke as though he were +carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, low and brokenly. + +“Then I said, ‘And if virgins has it so fine, why didn’t you stay one?’” + +“Blasphemer!” said the priest in a stern, reproachful voice, his face +turning a little pale, and he brought the crucifix to his lips. “To the +mother of your child--shame! What more?” + +She threw up her hands to her ears with a wild cry, ran out of the +house, down the hills, and away. I went to the door and watched her as +long as I could see her, and waited for her to come back--but she never +did. + +“I’ve hunted and hunted, but I can’t find her.” Then, with a sudden +thought, “Do you know anything of her, m’sieu’?” + +The priest appeared not to hear the question. Turning for a moment +toward the boy who now was in a deep sleep, he looked at him intently. +Presently he spoke. + +“Ever since I married you and Lucette Barbond, you have stood in the way +of her duty, Bagot. How well I remember that first day when you knelt +before me! Was ever so sweet and good a girl--with her golden eyes and +the look of summer in her face, and her heart all pure! Nothing had +spoiled her--you cannot spoil such women--God is in their hearts. But +you, what have you cared? One day you would fondle her, and the next you +were a savage--and she, so gentle, so gentle all the time. Then, for her +religion and the faith of her child--she has fought for it, prayed for +it, suffered for it. You thought you had no need, for you had so much +happiness, which you did not deserve--that was it. But she: with all a +woman suffers, how can she bear life--and man--without God? No, it is +not possible. And you thought you and your few superstitions were enough +for her.--Ah, poor fool! She should worship you! So selfish, so small, +for a man who knows in his heart how great God is.--You did not love +her.” + +“By the Heaven above, yes!” said Bagot, half starting to his feet. + +“Ah, ‘by the Heaven above,’ no! nor the child. For true love is +unselfish and patient, and where it is the stronger, it cares for the +weaker; but it was your wife who was unselfish, patient, and cared for +you. Every time she said an ave she thought of you, and her every +thanks to the good God had you therein. They know you well in heaven, +Bagot--through your wife. Did you ever pray--ever since I married you to +her?” + +“Yes.” + +“When?” + +“An hour or so ago.” + +Once again the priest’s eyes glanced towards the lighted candles. + +Presently he said: “You asked me if I had heard anything of your wife. +Listen, and be patient while you listen.... Three weeks ago I was +camping on the Sundust Plains, over against the Young Sky River. In the +morning, as I was lighting a fire outside my tent, my young Cree Indian +with me, I saw coming over the crest of a land-wave, from the very lips +of the sunrise, as it were, a band of Indians. I could not quite make +them out. I hoisted my little flag on the tent, and they hurried on to +me. I did not know the tribe--they had come from near Hudson’s Bay. They +spoke Chinook, and I could understand them. Well, as they came near I +saw that they had a woman with them.” + +Bagot leaned forward, his body strained, every muscle tense. “A woman?” + he said, as if breathing gave him sorrow--“my wife?” + +“Your wife.” + +“Quick! Quick! Go on--oh, go on, m’sieu’--good father.” + +“She fell at my feet, begging me to save her.... I waved her off.” + +The sweat dropped from Bagot’s forehead, a low growl broke from him, and +he made such a motion as a lion might make at its prey. + +“You wouldn’t--wouldn’t save her--you coward!” He ground the words out. + +The priest raised his palm against the other’s violence. “Hush!... +She drew away, saying that God and man had deserted her.... We had +breakfast, the chief and I. Afterwards, when the chief had eaten much +and was in good humour, I asked him where he had got the woman. He said +that he had found her on the plains she had lost her way. I told him +then that I wanted to buy her. He said to me, ‘What does a priest want +of a woman?’ I said that I wished to give her back to her husband. He +said that he had found her, and she was his, and that he would marry her +when they reached the great camp of the tribe. I was patient. It would +not do to make him angry. I wrote down on a piece of bark the things +that I would give him for her: an order on the Company at Fort o’ Sin +for shot, blankets, and beads. He said no.” + +The priest paused. Bagot’s face was all swimming with sweat, his body +was rigid, but the veins of his neck knotted and twisted. + +“For the love of God, go on!” he said hoarsely. “Yes, ‘for the love of +God.’ I have no money, I am poor, but the Company will always honour my +orders, for I pay sometimes, by the help of Christ. Bien, I added some +things to the list: a saddle, a rifle, and some flannel. But no, he +would not. Once more I put many things down. It was a big bill--it would +keep me poor for five years.--To save your wife, John Bagot, you who +drove her from your door, blaspheming, and railing at such as I.... I +offered the things, and told him that was all that I could give. After +a little he shook his head, and said that he must have the woman for his +wife. I did not know what to add. I said--‘She is white, and the white +people will never rest till they have killed you all, if you do this +thing. The Company will track you down.’ Then he said, ‘The whites must +catch me and fight me before they kill me.’... What was there to do?” + +Bagot came near to the priest, bending over him savagely. + +“You let her stay with them--you with hands like a man!” + +“Hush!” was the calm, reproving answer. “I was one man, they were +twenty.” + +“Where was your God to help you, then?” + +“Her God and mine was with me.” + +Bagot’s eyes blazed. “Why didn’t you offer rum--rum? They’d have done it +for that--one--five--ten kegs of rum!” + +He swayed to and fro in his excitement, yet their voices hardly rose +above a hoarse whisper all the time. “You forget,” answered the priest, +“that it is against the law, and that as a priest of my order, I am +vowed to give no rum to an Indian.” + +“A vow? A vow? Name of God! what is a vow beside a woman--my wife?” + +His misery and his rage were pitiful to see. + +“Perjure my soul? Offer rum? Break my vow in the face of the enemies of +God’s Church? What have you done for me that I should do this for you, +John Bagot?” + +“Coward!” was the man’s despairing cry, with a sudden threatening +movement. “Christ Himself would have broke a vow to save her.” + +The grave, kind eyes of the priest met the other’s fierce gaze, and +quieted the wild storm that was about to break. + +“Who am I that I should teach my Master?” he said solemnly. “What would +you give Christ, Bagot, if He had saved her to you?” + +The man shook with grief, and tears rushed from his eyes, so suddenly +and fully had a new emotion passed through him. + +“Give--give?” he cried; “I would give twenty years of my life!” + +The figure of the priest stretched up with a gentle grandeur. Holding +out the iron crucifix, he said: “On your knees and swear it, John +Bagot.” + +There was something inspiring, commanding, in the voice and manner, and +Bagot, with a new hope rushing through his veins, knelt and repeated his +words. + +The priest turned to the door, and called, “Madame Lucette!” + +The boy, hearing, waked, and sat up in bed suddenly. “Mother! mother!” + he cried, as the door flew open. The mother came to her husband’s arms, +laughing and weeping, and an instant afterwards was pouring out her love +and anxiety over her child. + +Father Corraine now faced the man, and with a soft exaltation of voice +and manner, said: + +“John Bagot, in the name of Christ, I demand twenty years of your +life--of love and obedience of God. I broke my vow, I perjured my soul, +I bought your wife with ten kegs of rum!” + +The tall hunter dropped again to his knees, and caught the priest’s hand +to kiss it. + +“No, no--this!” the priest said, and laid his iron crucifix against the +other’s lips. + +Dominique’s voice came clearly through the room: “Mother, I saw the +white swan fly away through the door when you came in.” + +“My dear, my dear,” she said, “there was no white swan.” But she clasped +the boy to her breast protectingly, and whispered an ave. + +“Peace be to this house,” said the voice of the priest. And there was +peace: for the child lived, and the man has loved, and has kept his vow, +even unto this day. + +For the visions of the boy, who can know the divers ways in which God +speaks to the children of men? + + + + +AT BAMBER’S BOOM + +His trouble came upon him when he was old. To the hour of its coming +he had been of shrewd and humourous disposition. He had married late in +life, and his wife had died, leaving him one child--a girl. She grew to +womanhood, bringing him daily joy. She was beloved in the settlement; +and there was no one at Bamber’s Boom, in the valley of the Madawaska, +but was startled and sorry when it turned out that Dugard, the +river-boss, was married. He floated away down the river, with his rafts +and drives of logs, leaving the girl sick and shamed. They knew she was +sick at heart, because she grew pale and silent; they did not know for +some months how shamed she was. Then it was that Mrs. Lauder, the sister +of the Roman Catholic missionary, Father Halen, being a woman of notable +character and kindness, visited her and begged her to tell all. + +Though the girl--Nora--was a Protestant, Mrs. Lauder did this: but it +brought sore grief to her. At first she could hardly bear to look at +the girl’s face, it was so hopeless, so numb to the world: it had the +indifference of despair. Rumour now became hateful fact. When the old +man was told, he gave one great cry, then sat down, his hands pressed +hard between his knees, his body trembling, his eyes staring before him. + +It was Father Halen who told him. He did it as man to man, and not as +a priest, having travelled fifty miles for the purpose. “George Magor,” + said he, “it’s bad, I know, but bear it--with the help of God. And be +kind to the girl.” + +The old man answered nothing. “My friend,” the priest continued, “I hope +you’ll forgive me for telling you. I thought ‘twould be better from me, +than to have it thrown at you in the settlement. We’ve been friends +one way and another, and my heart aches for you, and my prayers go with +you.” + +The old man raised his sunken eyes, all their keen humour gone, and +spoke as though each word were dug from his heart. “Say no more, Father +Halen.” Then he reached out, caught the priest’s hand in his gnarled +fingers, and wrung it. + +The father never spoke a harsh word to the girl. Otherwise he seemed to +harden into stone. When the Protestant missionary came, he would not see +him. The child was born before the river-drivers came along again the +next year with their rafts and logs. There was a feeling abroad that it +would be ill for Dugard if he chanced to camp at Bamber’s Boom. The +look of the old man’s face was ominous, and he was known to have an iron +will. + +Dugard was a handsome man, half French, half Scotch, swarthy and +admirably made. He was proud of his strength, and showily fearless in +danger. For there were dangerous hours to the river life: when, +for instance, a mass of logs became jammed at a rapids, and must be +loosened; or a crib struck into the wrong channel, or, failing to enter +a slide straight, came at a nasty angle to it, its timbers wrenched and +tore apart, and its crew, with their great oars, were plumped into the +busy current. He had been known to stand singly in some perilous spot +when one log, the key to the jam, must be shifted to set free the great +tumbled pile. He did everything with a dash. The handspike was waved +and thrust into the best leverage, the long robust cry, “O-hee-hee-hoi!” + rolled over the waters, there was a devil’s jumble of logs, and +he played a desperate game with them, tossing here, leaping there, +balancing elsewhere, till, reaching the smooth rush of logs in the +current, he ran across them to the shore as they spun beneath his feet. + +His gang of river-drivers, with their big drives of logs, came +sweeping down one beautiful day of early summer, red-shifted, shouting, +good-tempered. It was about this time that Pierre came to know Magor. + +It was the old man’s duty to keep the booms of several great lumbering +companies, and to watch the logs when the river-drivers were engaged +elsewhere. Occasionally he took a place with the men, helping to make +cribs and rafts. Dugard worked for one lumber company, Magor for others. +Many in the settlement showed Dugard how much he was despised. Some +warned him that Magor had said he would break him into pieces; it seemed +possible that Dugard might have a bad hour with the people of Bamber’s +Boom. Dugard, though he swelled and strutted, showed by a furtive eye +and a sinister watchfulness that he felt himself in an atmosphere of +danger. But he spoke of his wickedness lightly as, “A slip--a little +accident, mon ami.” + +Pierre said to him one day: “Bien, Dugard, you are a bold man to come +here again. Or is it that you think old men are cowards?” + +Dugard, blustering, laid his hand suddenly upon his case-knife. + +Pierre laughed softly, contemptuously, came over, and throwing out his +perfectly formed but not robust chest in the fashion of Dugard, added: +“Ho, ho, monsieur the butcher, take your time at that. There is too much +blood in your carcass. You have quarrels plenty on your hands without +this. Come, don’t be a fool and a scoundrel too.” + +Dugard grinned uneasily, and tried to turn the thing off as a joke, and +Pierre, who laughed still a little more, said: “It would be amusing to +see old Magor and Dugard fight. It would be--so equal.” There was a keen +edge to Pierre’s tones, but Dugard dared not resent it. + +One day Magor and Dugard must meet. The square-timber of the two +companies had got tangled at a certain point, and gangs from both must +set them loose. They were camped some distance from each other. There +was rivalry between them, and it was hinted that if any trouble came +from the meeting of Magor and Dugard the gangs would pay off old scores +with each other. Pierre wished to prevent this. It seemed to him that +the two men should stand alone in the affair. He said as much here and +there to members of both camps, for he was free of both: a tribute to +his genius at poker. + +The girl, Nora, was apprehensive--for her father; she hated the other +man now. Pierre was courteous to her, scrupulous in word and look, and +fond of her child. He had always shown a gentleness to children, which +seemed little compatible with his character; but for this young outlaw +in the world he had something more. He even laboured carefully to turn +the girl’s father in its favour; but as yet to little purpose. He was +thought ful of the girl too. He only went to the house when he knew +her father was present, or when she was away. Once while he was there, +Father Halen and his sister, Mrs. Lauder, came. They found Pierre with +the child, rocking the cradle, and humming as he did so an old song of +the coureurs de bois: + + “Out of the hills comes a little white deer, + Poor little vaurien, o, ci, ci! + Come to my home, to my home down here, + Sister and brother and child o’ me + Poor little, poor little vaurien!” + +Pierre was alone, save for the old woman who had cared for the home +since Nora’s trouble came. The priest was anxious lest any harm should +come from Dugard’s presence at Bamber’s Boom. He knew Pierre’s doubtful +reputation, but still he knew he could speak freely and would be +answered honestly. “What will happen?” he abruptly asked. + +“What neither you nor I should try to prevent, m’sieu’,” was Pierre’s +reply. + +“Magor will do the man injury?” + +“What would you have? Put the matter on your own hearthstone, eh?... +Pardon, if I say these things bluntly.” Pierre still lightly rocked the +cradle with one foot. + +“But vengeance is in God’s hands.” + +“M’sieu’,” said the half-breed, “vengeance also is man’s, else why did +we ten men from Fort Cypress track down the Indians who murdered your +brother, the good priest, and kill them one by one?” + +Father Halen caught his sister as she swayed, and helped her to a chair, +then turned a sad face on Pierre. “Were you--were you one of that ten?” + he asked, overcome; and he held out his hand. + +The two river-driving camps joined at Mud Cat Point, where was the crush +of great timber. The two men did not at first come face to face, but it +was noticed by Pierre, who smoked on the bank while the others worked, +that the old man watched his enemy closely. The work of undoing the +great twist of logs was exciting, and they fell on each other with a +great sound as they were pried off, and went sliding, grinding, into +the water. At one spot they were piled together, massive and high. These +were left to the last. + +It was here that the two met. Old Magor’s face was quiet, if a little +haggard; and his eyes looked out from under his shaggy brows piercingly. +Dugard’s manner was swaggering, and he swore horribly at his gang. +Presently he stood at a point alone, working at an obstinate log. He was +at the foot of an incline of timber, and he was not aware that Magor had +suddenly appeared at the top of that incline. He heard his name called +out sharply. Swinging round, he saw Magor thrusting a handspike under +a huge timber, hanging at the top of the incline. He was standing in a +hollow, a kind of trench. He was shaken with fear, for he saw the old +man’s design. He gave a cry and made as if to jump out of the way, but +with a laugh Magor threw his whole weight on the handspike, the great +timber slid swiftly down and crushed Dugard from his thighs to his feet, +breaking his legs terribly. The old man called down at him: “A slip--a +little accident, mon ami!” Then, shouldering his handspike, he made his +way through the silent gangs to the shore, and so on homewards. + +Magor had done what he wished. Dugard would be a cripple for life; his +beauty was all spoiled and broken: there was much to do to save his +life. II + +Nora also about this time took to her bed with fever. Again and again +Pierre rode thirty miles and back to get ice for her head. All were kind +to her now. The vengeance upon Dugard seemed to have wiped out much of +her shame in the eyes of Bamber’s Boom. Such is the way of the world. +He that has the last blow is in the eye of advantage. When Nora began to +recover, the child fell ill also. In the sickness of the child the old +man had a great temptation--far greater than that concerning Dugard. As +the mother grew better the child became much worse. One night the doctor +came, driving over from another settlement, and said that if the child +got sleep till morning it would probably live, for the crisis had come. +He left an opiate to procure the sleep, the same that had been given +to the mother. If it did not sleep, it would die. Pierre was present at +this time. + +All through the child’s illness the old man’s mind had been tossed to +and fro. If the child died, the living stigma would be gone; there would +be no reminder of his daughter’s shame in the eyes of the world. They +could go away from Bamber’s Boom, and begin life again somewhere. But, +then, there was the child itself which had crept into his heart,--he +knew not how, and would not be driven out. He had never, till it +was taken ill, even touched it, nor spoken to it. To destroy its +life!--Well, would it not be better for the child to go out of all +possible shame, into peace, the peace of the grave? + +This night he sat down beside the cradle, holding the bottle of medicine +and a spoon in his hand. The hot, painful face of the child fascinated +him. He looked from it to the bottle, and back, then again to the +bottle. He started, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. For though +the doctor had told him in words the proper dose, he had by mistake +written on the label the same dose as for the mother! Here was the +responsibility shifted in any case. More than once the old man uncorked +the bottle, and once he dropped out the opiate in the spoon steadily; +but the child opened its suffering eyes at him, its little wasted hand +wandered over the coverlet, and he could not do it just then. But +again the passion for its destruction came on him, because he heard his +daughter moaning in the other room. He said to himself that she would be +happier when it was gone. But as he stooped over the cradle, no longer +hesitating, the door softly opened, and Pierre entered. The old man +shuddered, and drew back from the cradle. Pierre saw the look of guilt +in the old man’s face, and his instinct told him what was happening. He +took the bottle from the trembling hand, and looked at the label. + +“What is the proper dose?” he asked, seeing that a mistake had been made +by the doctor. + +In a hoarse whisper Magor told him. “It may be too late,” Pierre added. +He knelt down, with light fingers opened the child’s mouth, and poured +the medicine in slowly. The old man stood for a time rigid, looking +at them both. Then he came round to the other side of the cradle, and +seated himself beside it, his eyes fixed on the child’s face. For a long +time they sat there. At last the old man said: “Will he die, Pierre?” + +“I am afraid so,” answered Pierre painfully. “But we shall see.” Then +early teaching came to him, never to be entirely obliterated, and he +added: “Has the child been baptised?” + +The old man shook his head. “‘Will you do it?” asked Pierre +hesitatingly. + +“I can’t--I can’t,” was the reply. + +Pierre smiled a little ironically, as if at himself, got some water in a +cup, came over, and said: “Remember, I’m a Papist!” + +A motion of the hand answered him. + +He dipped his fingers in the water, and dropped it ever so lightly on +the child’s forehead. + +“George Magor,”--it was the old man’s name,--“I baptise thee in the name +of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Then he +drew the sign of the cross on the infant’s forehead. + +Sitting down, he watched beside the child. After a little he heard a +long choking sigh. Looking up, he saw tears slowly dropping from Magor’s +eyes. + +And to this day the child and the mother of the child are dear to the +old man’s heart. + + + + +THE BRIDGE HOUSE + +It stood on a wide wall between two small bridges. These were approaches +to the big covered bridge spanning the main channel of the Madawaska +River, and when swelled by the spring thaws and rains, the two flanking +channels divided at the foundations of the house, and rustled away +through the narrow paths of the small bridges to the rapids. You could +stand at any window in the House and watch the ugly, rushing current, +gorged with logs, come battering at the wall, jostle between the piers, +and race on to the rocks and the dam and the slide beyond. You stepped +from the front door upon the wall, which was a road between the bridges, +and from the back door into the river itself. + +The House had once been a tavern. It looked a wayfarer, like its patrons +the river-drivers, with whom it was most popular. You felt that it had +no part in the career of the village on either side, but was like a rock +in a channel, at which a swimmer caught or a vagrant fish loitered. + +Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in the springtime or early +summer, throngs of river-drivers and their bosses sauntered at its +doors, or hung over the railing of the wall, as they talked and smoked. + +The glory of the Bridge House suddenly declined. That was because +Finley, the owner, a rich man, came to hate the place--his brother’s +blood stained the barroom floor. He would have destroyed the house but +that John Rupert, the beggared gentleman came to him, and wished to rent +it for a dwelling. + +Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably poor for many years, but he +had a breeding and a manner superior to anyone at Bamber’s Boom. He was +too old for a labourer, he had no art or craftsmanship; his little +money was gone in foolish speculations, and he was dependent on his +granddaughter’s slight earnings from music teaching and needlework. +But he rented an acre of ground from Finley, and grew vegetables; he +gathered driftwood from the river for his winter fire, and made up the +accounts of the storekeeper occasionally. Yet it was merely keeping off +starvation. He was not popular. He had no tongue for the meaningless +village talk. People held him in a kind of awe, and yet they felt a mean +satisfaction when they saw him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on +the shore to be dragged away--the last resort of the poor, for which +they blush. + +When Mr. Rupert asked for the House, Finley knew the chances were he +would not get the rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old man, he +gave it to him at a low rate. He closed up the bar-room, however, and it +was never opened afterwards. + +So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his granddaughter, came to live +there. Judith was a blithe, lissome creature, who had never known +comfort or riches: they were taken from her grandfather before she was +born, and her father and mother both died when she was a little child. +But she had been taught by her grandmother, when she lived, and by her +grandfather, and she had felt the graces of refined life. Withal, she +had a singular sympathy for the rude, strong life of the river. She was +glad when they came to live at the Bridge House, and shamed too: glad +because they could live apart from the other villagers; shamed because +it exposed her to the curiosity of those who visited the House, thinking +it was still a tavern. But that was only for a time. + +One night Jules Brydon, the young river-boss, camped with his men at +Bamber’s Boom. He was of parents Scotch and French, and the amalgamation +of races in him made a striking product. He was cool and indomitable, +yet hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch him at the head of his +men, breaking up a jam of logs, and it was a delight to hear him of an +evening as he sang: + + “Have you heard the cry of the Long Lachine, + When happy is the sun in the morning? + The rapids long and the banks of green, + As we ride away in the morning, + On the froth of the Long Lachine?” + +One day, soon after they came, the dams and booms were opened above, +and forests of logs came riding down to Bamber’s Boom. The current was +strong, and the logs came on swiftly. As Brydon’s gang worked, they saw +a man out upon a small raft of driftwood, which had been suddenly caught +in the drive of logs, and was carried out towards the middle channel. +The river-drivers laughed, for they failed to see that the man was old, +and that he could not run across the rolling logs to the shore. The old +man, evidently hopeless, laid down his pike-pole, folded his hands, and +drifted with the logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They began to +understand. + +Brydon saw a woman standing at a window of the House waving her arms, +and there floated up the river the words, “Father! father!” He caught +up a pikepole, and ran over that spinning floor of logs to the raft. The +old man’s face was white, but there was no fear in his eyes. + +“I cannot run the logs,” he said at once; “I never did; I am too old, +and I slip. It’s no use. It is my granddaughter at that window. Tell her +that I’ll think of her to the last.... Good-bye!” + +Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man’s voice was husky; he could not +cry out, but he waved his hand to the girl. + +“Oh, save him!” came from her faintly. + +Brydon’s eyes were now on the covered bridge. Their raft was in the +channel, coming straight between two piers. He measured his chances. He +knew if he slipped, doing what he intended, that both might be drowned, +and certainly Mr. Rupert; for the logs were close, and to drop among +them was a bad business. If they once closed over there was an end of +everything. + +“Keep quite still,” he said, “and when I throw you catch.” + +He took the slight figure in his arms, sprang out upon the slippery +logs, and ran. A cheer went up from the men on the shore, and the people +who were gathering on the bridges, too late to be of service. Besides, +the bridge was closed, and there was only a small opening at the piers. +For one of these piers Brydon was making. He ran hard. Once he slipped +and nearly fell, but recovered. Then a floating tree suddenly lunged up +and struck him, so that he dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, and +strained for the pier. He was within a few feet of it as they came to +the bridge. The people gave a cry of fear, for they saw that there was +no chance of both making it; because, too, at the critical moment a +space of clear water showed near the pier. But Brydon raised John +Rupert up, balanced himself, and tossed him at the pier, where two +river-drivers stood stretching out their arms. An instant afterwards +the old man was with his granddaughter. But Brydon slipped and fell; the +roots of a tree bore him down, and he was gone beneath the logs! + +There was a cry of horror from the watchers, then all was still. But +below the bridge they saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and then +another arm crowding them apart. Now a head and shoulders appeared. +Luckily the piece of timber which Brydon grasped was square, and did +not roll. In a moment he was standing on it. There was a wild shout of +encouragement. He turned his battered, blood-stained face to the bridge +for an instant, and, with a wave of the hand and a sharp look towards +the rapids below, once more sprang out. It was a brave sight, for the +logs were in a narrower channel and more riotous. He rubbed the blood +out of his eyes that he might see his way. The rolling forest gave him +no quarter, but he came on, rocking with weakness, to within a few rods +of the shore. Then a half-dozen of his men ran out on the logs,--they +were packed closely here,--caught him up, and brought him to dry ground. + +They took him to the Bridge House. He was hurt more than he or they +thought. The old man and the girl met them at the door. Judith gave a +little cry when she saw the blood and Brydon’s bruised face. He lifted +his head as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their looks meeting, +he took his hat off. Her face flushed; she dropped her eyes. Her +grandfather seized Brydon’s big hand, and said some trembling words of +thanks. The girl stepped inside, made a bed for him upon the sofa, and +got him something to drink. She was very cool; she immediately asked +Pierre to go for the young doctor who had lately come to the place, and +made ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon’s blood-stained face +and hands, and then gave him some brandy. His comrades standing round +watched her admiringly, she was so deft and delicate. Brydon, as if to +be nursed and cared for was not manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly +to a sitting posture, saying, “Pshaw! I’m all right!” But he turned sick +immediately, and Judith’s arms caught his head and shoulders as he +fell back. His face turned, and was pillowed on her bosom. At this +she blushed, but a look of singular dignity came into her face. Those +standing by were struck with a kind of awe; they were used mostly to the +daughters of habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sensitive face spoke +a wonderful language: a divine gratitude and thankfulness; and her eyes +had a clear moisture which did not dim them. The situation was trying +to the river-drivers--it was too refined; and they breathed more freely +when they got outside and left the girl, her grandfather, Pierre, and +the young doctor alone with the injured man. + +That was how the thing began. Pierre saw the conclusion of events from +the start. The young doctor did not. From the hour when he bound up +Brydon’s head, Judith’s fingers aiding him, he felt a spring in his +blood new to him. When he came to know exactly what it meant, and acted, +it was too late. He was much surprised that his advances were gently +repulsed. He pressed them hard: that was a mistake. He had an idea, not +uncommon in such cases, that he was conferring an honour. But he was +very young. A gold medal in anatomy is likely to turn a lad’s head at +the start. He falls into the error that the ability to demonstrate the +medulla oblongata should likewise suffice to convince the heart of a +maid. Pierre enjoyed the situation; he knew life all round; he had boxed +the compass of experience. + +He believed in Judith. The old man interested him: he was a wreck out of +an unfamiliar life. + +“Well, you see,” Pierre said to Brydon one day, as they sat on the high +cross-beams of the little bridge, “you can’t kill it in a man--what he +was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood over there. Broken down, +eh? Yes, but then there is something--a manner, an eye. He piles the +wood like champagne bottles. On the raft, you remember, he took off his +hat to death. That’s different altogether from us.” + +He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and saw a troubled look. + +“Yes,” Brydon said, “he is different; and so is she.” + +“She is a lady,” Pierre said, with slow emphasis. “She couldn’t hide it +if she tried. She plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. Made +for this?”--he waved his hand towards the Bridge House. “No, no! made +for--” + +He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swift +current. + +Brydon frowned, then said: “Well, made for what, Pierre?” + +Pierre looked over Brydon’s shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on the +hillside. “Made for homes like that, not this,” he said, and he nodded +first towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House. (The cottage +belonged to the young doctor.) A growl like an animal’s came from +Brydon, and he clinched the other’s shoulder. Pierre glanced at the +hand, then at Brydon’s face, and said sharply: “Take it away.” + +The hand dropped; but Brydon’s face was hot, and his eyes were hard. + +Pierre continued: “But then women are strange. What you expect they will +not--no. Riches?--it is nothing; houses like that on the hill, nothing. +They have whims. The hut is as good as the house, with the kitchen in +the open where the river welts and washes, and a man--the great man of +the world to them--to play the little game of life with.... Pshaw! you +are idle: move; you are thick in the head: think hard; you like the +girl: speak.” + +As he said this, there showed beneath them the front timbers of a small +crib of logs with a crew of two men, making for the rapids and the slide +below. Here was an adventure, for running the rapids with so slight a +craft and small a crew was smart work. Pierre, measuring the distance, +and with a “Look out, below!” swiftly let himself down by his arms as +far as he could, and then dropped to the timbers, as lightly as if it +were a matter of two feet instead of twelve. He waved a hand to Brydon, +and the crib shot on. Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran +into the teeth of the rapids, the long oars of the three men rising and +falling to the monotonous cry. The sun set out the men and the craft +against the tall dark walls of the river in strong relief, and Brydon +was carried away from what Pierre had been saying. He had a solid +pleasure in watching, and he sat up with a call of delight when he saw +the crib drive at the slide. Just glancing the edge, she shot through +safely. His face blazed. + +“A pretty sight!” said a voice behind him. + +Without a word he swung round, and dropped, more heavily than Pierre, +beside Judith. + +“It gets into our bones,” he said. “Of course, though it ain’t the same +to you,” he added, looking down at her over his shoulder. “You don’t +care for things so rough, mebbe?” + +“I love the river,” she said quietly. + +“We’re a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We have to be. It’s a rowdy +business.” + +“I never noticed that,” she replied, gravely smiling. “When I was small +I used to go to the river-drivers’ camps with my brother, and they were +always kind to us. They used to sing and play the fiddle, and joke; but +I didn’t think then that they were rowdy, and I don’t now. They were +never rough with us.” + +“No one’d ever be rough with you,” was the reply. “Oh yes,” she said +suddenly, and turned her head away. She was thinking of what the young +doctor had said to her that morning; how like a foolish boy he had +acted: upbraiding her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things, as +young egoists always do. In years she was younger than he, but in wisdom +much older: in all things more wise and just. He had not struck her, +but with his reckless tongue he had cut her to the heart. “Oh yes,” she +repeated, and her eyes ran up to his face and over his great stalwart +body; and then she leaned over the railing and looked into the water. + +“I’d break the man into pieces that was rough with you,” he said between +his teeth. + +“Would you?” she asked in a whisper. Then, not giving him a chance to +reply, “We are very poor, you know, and some people are rough with the +poor--and proud. I remember,” she went on, simply, dreamily, and as if +talking to herself, “the day when we first came to the Bridge House. +I sat down on a box and looked at the furniture--it was so little--and +cried. Coming here seemed the last of what grandfather used to be. I +couldn’t help it. He sat down too, and didn’t say anything. He was very +pale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he looked at me. Then I got angry +with myself, and sprang up and went to work--and we get along pretty +well.” + +She paused and sighed; then, after a minute: “I love the river. I don’t +believe I could be happy away from it. I should like to live on it, and +die on it, and be buried in it.” + +His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked so frail and dainty that +his voice, to himself, sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along the +railing to hers, and covered it tenderly--for so big a hand. She drew +her fingers away, but not very quickly. “Don’t!” she said, “and--and +someone is coming!” + +There were footsteps behind them. It was her grandfather, carrying +a board fished from the river. He grasped the situation, and stood +speechless with wonder. He had never thought of this. He was a +gentleman, in spite of all, and this man was a common river-boss. +Presently he drew himself up with an air. The heavy board was still in +his arms. Brydon came over and took the board, looking him squarely in +the eyes. + +“Mr. Rupert,” he said, “I want to ask something.” The old man nodded. + +“I helped you out of a bad scrape on the river?” Again the old man +nodded. + +“Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that I’m going to ask you to draw +no more driftwood from the Madawaska--not a stick, now or ever.” + +“It is the only way we can keep from freezing in winter.” Mr. Rupert +scarcely knew what he said. Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away, +then answered: “I’ll keep you from freezing, if you’ll let me, you--and +Judith.” + +“Oh, please let us go into the house,” Judith said hastily. + +She saw the young doctor driving towards them out of the covered bridge! + +When Brydon went to join his men far down the river he left a wife +behind him at the Bridge House, where she and her grandfather were to +stay until the next summer. Then there would be a journey from Bamber’s +Boom to a new home. + +In the late autumn he came, before he went away to the shanties in the +backwoods, and again in the winter just before the babe was born. Then +he went far up the river to Rice Lake and beyond, to bring down the +drives of logs for his Company. June came, and then there was a sudden +sorrow at the Bridge House. How great it was, Pierre’s words as he stood +at the door one evening will testify. He said to the young doctor: “Save +the child, and you shall have back the I O U on your house.” Which +was also evidence that the young doctor had fallen into the habit of +gambling. + +The young doctor looked hard at him. He had a selfish nature. “You can +only do what you can do,” he said. + +Pierre’s eyes were sinister. “If you do not save it, one would guess +why.” + +The other started, flushed, was silent, and then said: “You think I’m a +coward. We shall see. There is a way, but it may fail.” + +And though he sucked the diphtheria poison from the child’s throat, it +died the next night. + +Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company had won was handed back with +such good advice as only a worldwise adventurer can give. + +Of the child’s death its father did not know. They were not certain +where he was. But when the mother took to her bed again, the young +doctor said it was best that Brydon should come. Pierre had time and +inclination to go for him. But before he went he was taken to Judith’s +bedside. Pierre had seen life and death in many forms, but never +anything quite like this: a delicate creature floating away upon a +summer current travelling in those valleys which are neither of this +life nor of that; but where you hear the echoes of both, and are visited +by solicitous spirits. There was no pain in her face--she heard a +little, familiar voice from high and pleasant hills, and she knew, so +wise are the dying, that her husband was travelling after her, and that +they would be all together soon. But she did not speak of that. For the +knowledge born of such a time is locked up in the soul. + +Pierre was awe-stricken. Unconsciously he crossed himself. + +“Tell him to come quickly,” she said, “if you find him,”--her fingers +played with the coverlet,--“for I wish to comfort him.... Someone said +that you were bad, Pierre. I do not believe it. You were sorry when my +baby went away. I am--going away--too. But do not tell him that. Tell +him I cannot walk about. I want him to carry me--to carry me. Will you?” + Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping along the coverlet to him; but +it was only instinct that guided him, for he could not see. He started +on his journey with his hat pulled down over his eyes. + +One evening when the river was very high and it was said that Brydon’s +drives of logs would soon be down, a strange thing happened at the +Bridge House. + +The young doctor had gone, whispering to Mr. Rupert that he would come +back later. He went out on tiptoe, as from the presence of an angel. His +selfishness had dropped away from him. The evening wore on, and in the +little back room a woman’s voice said: + +“Is it morning yet, father?” + +“It is still day. The sun has not set, my child.” + +“I thought it had gone, it seemed so dark.” + +“You have been asleep, Judith. You have come out of the dark.” + +“No, I have come out into the darkness--into the world.” + +“You will see better when you are quite awake.” + +“I wish I could see the river, father. Will you go and look?” + +Then there was a silence. “Well?” she asked. + +“It is beautiful,” he said, “and the sun is still bright.” + +“You see as far as Indian Island?” + +“I can see the white comb of the reef beyond it, my dear.” + +“And no one--is coming?” + +“There are men making for the shore, and the fires are burning, but no +one is--coming this way.... He would come by the road, perhaps.” + +“Oh no, by the river. Pierre has not found him. Can you see the Eddy?” + +“Yes. It is all quiet there; nothing but the logs tossing round it.” + +“We used to sit there--he and I--by the big cedar tree. Everything was +so cool and sweet. There was only the sound of the force-pump and the +swallowing of the Eddy. They say that a woman was drowned there, and +that you can see her face in the water, if you happen there at sunrise, +weeping and smiling also: a picture in the water.... Do you think it +true, father?” + +“Life is so strange, and who knows what is not life, my child?” + +“When baby was dying I held it over the water beneath that window, where +the sunshine falls in the evening; and it looked down once before its +spirit passed like a breath over my face. Maybe, its look will stay, for +him to see when he comes. It was just below where you stand.... Father, +can you see its face?” “No, Judith; nothing but the water and the +sunshine.” + +“Dear, carry me to the window.” + +When this was done she suddenly leaned forward with shining eyes and +anxious fingers. “My baby! My baby!” she said. + +She looked up the river, but her eyes were fading, she could not see +far. “It is all a grey light,” she said, “I cannot see well.” Yet she +smiled. “Lay me down again, father,” she whispered. + +After a little she sank into a slumber. All at once she started up. “The +river, the beautiful river!” she cried out gently. Then, at the last, +“Oh, my dear, my dear!” + +And so she came out of the valley into the high hills. Later he was left +alone with his dead. The young doctor and others had come and gone. He +would watch till morning. He sat long beside her, numb to the world. At +last he started, for he heard a low clear call behind the House. He +went out quickly to the little platform, and saw through the dusk a man +drawing himself up. It was Brydon. He caught the old man’s shoulders +convulsively. “How is she?” he asked. “Come in, my son,” was the low +reply. The old man saw a grief greater than his own. He led the husband +to the room where the wife lay beautiful and still. “She is better, as +you see,” he said bravely. + +The hours went, and the two sat near the body, one on either side. They +knew not what was going on in the world. + +As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor sat silent in that cottage +on the hillside. They were roused at last. There came up to Pierre’s +keen ears the sound of the river. + +“Let us go out,” he said; “the river is flooding. You can hear the +logs.” + +They came out and watched. The river went swishing, swilling past, and +the dull boom of the logs as they struck the piers of the bridge or some +building on the shore came rolling to them. + +“The dams and booms have burst!” Pierre said. He pointed to the camps +far up the river. By the light of the camp-fires there appeared a wide +weltering flood of logs and debris. Pierre’s eyes shifted to the Bridge +House. In one room was a light. He stepped out and down, and the other +followed. They had almost reached the shore, when Pierre cried out +sharply: “What’s that?” + +He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing down upon the Bridge House. It +was a big shed that had been carried away, and, jammed between timbers, +had not broken up. There was no time for warning. It came on swiftly, +heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grinding sound, and then they +saw the light of that one room move on, waving a little to and fro-on to +the rapids, the cohorts of logs crowding hard after. + +Where the light was two men had started to their feet when the crash +came. They felt the House move. “Run-save yourself!” cried the old man +quietly. “We are lost!” + +The floor rocked. + +“Go,” he said again. “I will stay with her.” + +“She is mine,” Brydon said; and he took her in his arms. “I will not +go.” + +They could hear the rapids below. The old man steadied himself in the +deep water on the floor, and caught out yearningly at the cold hands. + +“Come close, come close,” said Brydon. “Closer; put your arms round +her.” + +The old man did so. They were locked in each other’s arms--dead and +living. + +The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of joy: “We therefore commit her +body to the deep--!” + +The three were never found. + + + + +THE EPAULETTES + +Old Athabasca, chief of the Little Crees, sat at the door of his lodge, +staring down into the valley where Fort Pentecost lay, and Mitawawa +his daughter sat near him, fretfully pulling at the fringe of her fine +buckskin jacket. She had reason to be troubled. Fyles the trader had put +a great indignity upon Athabasca. A factor of twenty years before, in +recognition of the chief’s merits and in reward of his services, had +presented him with a pair of epaulettes, left in the Fort by some +officer in Her Majesty’s service. A good, solid, honest pair of +epaulettes, well fitted to stand the wear and tear of those high feasts +and functions at which the chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders. +They were the admiration of his own tribe, the wonder of others, the +envy of many chiefs. It was said that Athabasca wore them creditably, +and was no more immobile and grand-mannered than became a chief thus +honoured above his kind. + +But the years went, and there came a man to Fort Pentecost who knew not +Athabasca. He was young, and tall and strong, had a hot temper, knew +naught of human nature, was possessed by a pride more masterful than +his wisdom, and a courage stronger than his tact. He was ever for +high-handedness, brooked no interference, and treated the Indians more +as Company’s serfs than as Company’s friends and allies. Also, he had +an eye for Mitawawa, and found favour in return, though to what depth it +took a long time to show. The girl sat high in the minds and desires +of the young braves, for she had beauty of a heathen kind, a deft and +dainty finger for embroidered buckskin, a particular fortune with a bow +and arrow, and the fleetest foot. There were mutterings because Fyles +the white man came to sit often in Athabasca’s lodge. He knew of this, +but heeded not at all. At last Konto, a young brave who very accurately +guessed at Fyles’ intentions, stopped him one day on the Grey Horse +Trail, and in a soft, indolent voice begged him to prove his regard in +a fight without weapons, to the death, the survivor to give the other +burial where he fell. Fyles was neither fool nor coward. It would have +been foolish to run the risk of leaving Fort and people masterless +for an Indian’s whim; it would have been cowardly to do nothing. So he +whipped out a revolver, and bade his rival march before him to the Fort; +which Konto very calmly did, begging the favour of a bit of tobacco as +he went. + +Fyles demanded of Athabasca that he should sit in judgment, and should +at least banish Konto from his tribe, hinting the while that he might +have to put a bullet into Konto’s refractory head if the thing were not +done. He said large things in the name of the H.B.C., and was surprised +that Athabasca let them pass unmoved. But that chief, after long +consideration, during which he drank Company’s coffee and ate Company’s +pemmican, declared that he could do nothing: for Konto had made a fine +offer, and a grand chance of a great fight had been missed. This was in +the presence of several petty officers and Indians and woodsmen at the +Fort. Fyles had vanity and a nasty temper. He swore a little, and with +words of bluster went over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief’s +shoulders as a punishment, a mark of degradation. The chief said +nothing. He got up, and reached out his hands as if to ask them back; +and when Fyles refused, he went away, drawing his blanket high over +his shoulders. It was wont before to lie loosely about him, to show his +badges of captaincy and alliance. + +This was about the time that the Indians were making ready for the +buffalo, and when their chief took to his lodge, and refused to leave +it, they came to ask him why. And they were told. They were for making +trouble, but the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he would settle +it in his own way. He would not go to the hunt. Konto, he said, should +take his place; and when his braves came back there should be great +feasting, for then the matter would be ended. + +Half the course of the moon and more, and Athabasca came out of his +lodge--the first time in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace. He +and his daughter sat silent and watchful at the door. There had been no +word between Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mitawawa and Fyles. +The Fort was well-nigh tenantless, for the half-breeds also had gone +after buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half-breed cook were +left. + +Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: she had held her peace so long +that even her slow Indian nature could endure no more. “What will my +father Athabasca do?” she asked. “With idleness the flesh grows soft, +and the iron melts from the arm.” + +“But when the thoughts are stone, the body is as that of the Mighty Men +of the Kimash Hills. When the bow is long drawn, beware the arrow.” + +“It is no answer,” she said: “what will my father do?” + +“They were of gold,” he answered, “that never grew rusty. My people were +full of wonder when they stood before me, and the tribes had envy as +they passed. It is a hundred moons and one red midsummer moon since the +Great Company put them on my shoulders. They were light to carry, but it +was as if I bore an army. No other chief was like me. That is all over. +When the tribes pass they will laugh, and my people will scorn me if I +do not come out to meet them with the yokes of gold.” + +“But what will my father do?” she persisted. + +“I have had many thoughts, and at night I have called on the Spirits who +rule. From the top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft drum, +and called, and sung the hymn which wakes the sleeping Spirits: and I +know the way.” + +“What is the way?” Her eyes filled with a kind of fear or trouble, and +many times they shifted from the Fort to her father, and back again. The +chief was silent. Then anger leapt into her face. + +“Why does my father fear to speak to his child?” she said. “I will speak +plain. I love the man: but I love my father also.” + +She stood up, and drew her blanket about her, one hand clasped proudly +on her breast. “I cannot remember my mother; but I remember when I first +looked down from my hammock in the pine tree, and saw my father sitting +by the fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker, for the pines +made great shadows. I cried out, and he came and took me down, and laid +me between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat from the pot. He +talked much to me, and his voice was finer than any other. There is no +one like my father--Konto is nothing: but the voice of the white man, +Fyles, had golden words that our braves do not know, and I listened. +Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, because he was a great man of the +Company, would not fight, and drove him like a dog. Then he made my +father as a worm in the eyes of the world. I would give my life for +Fyles the trader, but I would give more than my life to wipe out my +father’s shame, and to show that Konto of the Little Crees is no dog. +I have been carried by the hands of the old men of my people, I have +ridden the horses of the young men: their shame is my shame.” + +The eyes of the chief had never lifted from the Fort: nor from his look +could you have told that he heard his daughter’s words. For a moment +he was silent, then a deep fire came into his eyes, and his wide heavy +brows drew up so that the frown of anger was gone. At last, as she +waited, he arose, put out a hand and touched her forehead. + +“Mitawawa has spoken well,” he said. “There will be an end. The yokes of +gold are mine: an honour given cannot be taken away. He has stolen; +he is a thief. He would not fight Konto: but I am a chief and he shall +fight me. I am as great as many men--I have carried the golden yokes: we +will fight for them. I thought long, for I was afraid my daughter loved +the man more than her people: but now I will break him in pieces. Has +Mitawawa seen him since the shameful day?” + +“He has come to the lodge, but I would not let him in unless he brought +the epaulettes. He said he would bring them when Konto was punished. I +begged of him as I never begged of my own father, but he was hard as the +ironwood tree. I sent him away. Yet there is no tongue like his in the +world; he is tall and beautiful, and has the face of a spirit.” + +From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With a pair of field-glasses he +could follow their actions, could almost read their faces. “There’ll +be a lot of sulking about those epaulettes, Mallory,” he said at last, +turning to his clerk. “Old Athabasca has a bee in his bonnet.” + +“Wouldn’t it be just as well to give ‘em back, sir?” Mallory had been at +Fort Pentecost a long time, and he understood Athabasca and his Indians. +He was a solid, slow-thinking old fellow, but he had that wisdom of the +north which can turn from dove to serpent and from serpent to lion in +the moment. + +“Give ‘em back, Mallory? I’ll see him in Jericho first, unless he goes +on his marrow-bones and kicks Konto out of the camp.” + +“Very well, sir. But I think we’d better keep an eye open.” + +“Eye open, be hanged! If he’d been going to riot he’d have done so +before this. Besides, the girl--!” Mallory looked long and earnestly at +his master, whose forehead was glued to the field-glass. His little eyes +moved as if in debate, his slow jaws opened once or twice. At last he +said: “I’d give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if I was you, unless I +meant to marry her.” Fyles suddenly swung round. “Keep your place, +blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals too. One’d think you were a +missionary.” Then with a sudden burst of anger: “Damn it all, if my men +don’t stand by me against a pack of treacherous Indians, I’d better get +out.” + +“Your men will stand by you, sir: no fear. I’ve served three traders +here, and my record is pretty clean, Mr. Fyles. But I’ll say it to your +face, whether you like it or not, that you’re not as good a judge of the +Injin as me, or even Duc the cook: and that’s straight as I can say it, +Mr. Fyles.” + +Fyles paced up and down in anger--not speaking; but presently threw up +the glass, and looked towards Athabasca’s lodge. “They’re gone,” he said +presently; “I’ll go and see them to-morrow. The old fool must do what I +want, or there’ll be ructions.” + +The moon was high over Fort Pentecost when Athabasca entered the silent +yard. The dogs growled, but Indian dogs growl without reason, and no one +heeds them. The old chief stood a moment looking at the windows, upon +which slush-lights were throwing heavy shadows. He went to Fyles’ +window: no one was in the room. He went to another: Mallory and Duc +were sitting at a table. Mallory had the epaulettes, looking at them +and fingering the hooks by which Athabasca had fastened them on. Duc was +laughing: he reached over for an epaulette, tossed it up, caught it and +threw it down with a guffaw. Then the door opened, and Athabasca walked +in, seized the epaulettes, and went swiftly out again. Just outside +the door Mallory clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Duc caught at the +epaulettes. + +Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once there was a cold white flash, +and Duc came huddling to Mallory’s feet. For a brief instant Mallory +and the Indian fell apart, then Athabasca with a contemptuous fairness +tossed his knife away, and ran in on his man. They closed; strained, +swayed, became a tangled wrenching mass; and then Mallory was lifted +high into the air, and came down with a broken back. + +Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hurried away, breathing hard, +and hugging them to his bare red-stained breast. He had nearly reached +the gate when he heard a cry. He did not turn, but a heavy stone caught +him high in the shoulders, and he fell on his face and lay clutching the +epaulettes in his outstretched hands. + +Fyles’ own hands were yet lifted with the effort of throwing, when he +heard the soft rush of footsteps, and someone came swiftly into his +embrace. A pair of arms ran round his shoulders--lips closed with +his--something ice-cold and hard touched his neck--he saw a bright flash +at his throat. + +In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sitting with wild eyes by her +father’s body. She had fastened the epaulettes on its shoulders. Fyles +and his men made a grim triangle of death at the door of the Fort. + + + + +THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER + + “He stands in the porch of the world-- + (Why should the door be shut?) + The grey wolf waits at his heel, + (Why is the window barred?) + Wild is the trail from the Kimash Hills, + The blight has fallen on bush and tree, + The choking earth has swallowed the streams, + Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol: + (Why should the door be shut?) + The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide-- + (Why is the window barred?)” + +Pierre stopped to listen. The voice singing was clear and soft, yet +strong--a mezzo-soprano without any culture save that of practice and +native taste. It had a singular charm--a sweet, fantastic sincerity. +He stood still and fastened his eyes on the house, a few rods away. It +stood on a knoll perching above Fort Ste. Anne. Years had passed since +Pierre had visited the Fort, and he was now on his way to it again, +after many wanderings. The house had stood here in the old days, and he +remembered it very well, for against it John Marcey, the Company’s man, +was shot by Stroke Laforce, of the Riders of the Plains. Looking now, he +saw that the shutter, which had been pulled off to bear the body away, +was hanging there just as he had placed it, with seven of its slats +broken and a dark stain in one corner. Something more of John Marcey +than memory attached to that shutter. His eyes dwelt on it long he +recalled the scene: a night with stars and no moon, a huge bonfire to +light the Indians, at their dance, and Marcey, Laforce, and many others +there, among whom was Lucille, the little daughter of Gyng the Factor. +Marcey and Laforce were only boys then, neither yet twenty-three, and +they were friendly rivals with the sweet little coquette, who gave her +favors with a singular impartiality and justice. Once Marcey had given +her a gold spoon. Laforce responded with a tiny, fretted silver basket. +Laforce was delighted to see her carrying her basket, till she opened +it and showed the spoon inside. There were many mock quarrels, in one +of which Marcey sent her a letter by the Company’s courier, covered with +great seals, saying, “I return you the hairpin, the egg-shell, and the +white wolf’s tooth. Go to your Laforce, or whatever his ridiculous name +may be.” + +In this way the pretty game ran on, the little goldenhaired, +golden-faced, golden-voiced child dancing so gayly in their hearts, but +nestling in them too, after her wilful fashion, until the serious thing +came--the tragedy. + +On the mad night when all ended, she was in the gayest, the most +elf-like spirits. All went well until Marcey dug a hole in the ground, +put a stone in it, and, burying it, said it was Laforce’s heart. Then +Laforce pretended to ventriloquise, and mocked Marcey’s slight stutter. +That was the beginning of the trouble, and Lucille, like any lady of +the world, troubled at Laforce’s unkindness, tried to smooth things +over--tried very gravely. But the playful rivalry of many months changed +its composition suddenly as through some delicate yet powerful chemical +action, and the savage in both men broke out suddenly. Where motives +and emotions are few they are the more vital, their action is the more +violent. No one knew quite what the two young men said to each other, +but presently, while the Indian dance was on, they drew to the side of +the house, and had their duel out in the half-shadows, no one knowing, +till the shots rang on the night, and John Marcey, without a cry, sprang +into the air and fell face upwards, shot through the heart. + +They tried to take the child away, but she would not go; and when they +carried Marcey on the shutter she followed close by, resisting her +father’s wishes and commands. And just before they made a prisoner of +Laforce, she said to him very quietly--so like a woman she was--“I will +give you back the basket, and the riding-whip, and the other things, and +I will never forgive you--never--no, never!” + +Stroke Laforce had given himself up, had himself ridden to Winnipeg, a +thousand miles, and told his story. Then the sergeant’s stripes had been +stripped from his arm, he had been tried, and on his own statement had +got twelve years’ imprisonment. Ten years had passed since then--since +Marcey was put away in his grave, since Pierre left Fort Ste. Anne, and +he had not seen it or Lucille in all that time. But he knew that Gyng +was dead, and that his widow and her child had gone south or east +somewhere; of Laforce after his sentence he had never heard. + +He stood looking at the house from the shade of the solitary pine-tree +near it, recalling every incident of that fatal night. He had the gift +of looking at a thing in its true proportions, perhaps because he had +little emotion and a strong brain, or perhaps because early in life his +emotions were rationalised. Presently he heard the voice again: + + “He waits at the threshold stone-- + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The eagle broods at his side, + (Why should the blind be drawn?) + Long has he watched, and far has he called + The lonely sentinel of the North: + “Who goes there?” to the wandering soul: + Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, + (Why should the blind be drawn?)” + +Now he recognised the voice. Its golden timbre brought back a young +girl’s golden face and golden hair. It was summer, and the window with +the broken shutter was open. He was about to go to it, when a door of +the house opened, and a girl appeared. She was tall, with rich, yellow +hair falling loosely about her head; she had a strong, finely cut chin +and a broad brow, under which a pair of deep blue eyes shone-violet +blue, rare and fine. She stood looking down at the Fort for a few +moments, unaware of Pierre’s presence. But presently she saw him leaning +against the tree, and she started as from a spirit. + +“Monsieur!” she said--“Pierre!” and stepped forward again from the +doorway. + +He came to her, and “Ah, p’tite Lucille,” he said, “you remember me, +eh?--and yet so many years ago!” + +“But you remember me,” she answered, “and I have changed so much!” + +“It is the man who should remember, the woman may forget if she will.” + +Pierre did not mean to pay a compliment; he was merely thinking. + +She made a little gesture of deprecation. “I was a child,” she said. + +Pierre lifted a shoulder slightly. “What matter? It is sex that I mean. +What difference to me--five, or forty, or ninety? It is all sex. It is +only lovers, the hunters of fire-flies, that think of age--mais oui!” + +She had a way of looking at you before she spoke, as though she were +trying to find what she actually thought. She was one after Pierre’s own +heart, and he knew it; but just here he wondered where all that ancient +coquetry was gone, for there were no traces of it left; she was steady +of eye, reposeful, rich in form and face, and yet not occupied with +herself. He had only seen her for a minute or so, yet he was sure that +what she was just now she was always, or nearly so, for the habits of +a life leave their mark, and show through every phase of emotion and +incident whether it be light or grave. + +“I think I understand you,” she said. “I think I always did a little, +from the time you stayed with Grah the idiot at Fort o’ God, and fought +the Indians when the others left. Only--men said bad things of you, and +my father did not like you, and you spoke so little to me ever. Yet I +mind how you used to sit and watch me, and I also mind when you rode the +man down who stole my pony, and brought them both back.” + +Pierre smiled--he was pleased at this. “Ah, my young friend,” he said, +“I do not forget that either, for though he had shaved my ear with +a bullet, you would not have him handed over to the Riders of the +Plains--such a tender heart!” + +Her eyes suddenly grew wide. She was childlike in her amazement, indeed, +childlike in all ways, for she was very sincere. It was her great +advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth, she had +not suffered that sickness, social artifice. + +“I never knew,” she said, “that he had shot at you--never! You did not +tell that.” + +“There is a time for everything--the time for that was not till now.” + +“What could I have done then?” + +“You might have left it to me. I am not so pious that I can’t be +merciful to the sinner. But this man--this Brickney--was a vile +scoundrel always, and I wanted him locked up. I would have shot him +myself, but I was tired of doing the duty of the law. Yes, yes,” he +added, as he saw her smile a little. “It is so. I have love for justice, +even I, Pretty Pierre. Why not justice on myself? Ha! The law does not +its duty. And maybe some day I shall have to do its work on myself. Some +are coaxed out of life, some are kicked out, and some open the doors +quietly for themselves, and go a-hunting Outside.” + +“They used to talk as if one ought to fear you,” she said, “but”--she +looked him straight in the eyes--“but maybe that’s because you’ve never +hid any badness.” + +“It is no matter, anyhow,” he answered. “I live in the open, I walk in +the open road, and I stand by what I do to the open law and the gospel. +It is my whim--every man to his own saddle.” + +“It is ten years,” she said abruptly. + +“Ten years less five days,” he answered as sententiously. + +“Come inside,” she said quietly, and turned to the door. + +Without a word he turned also, but instead of going direct to the door +came and touched the broken shutter and the dark stain on one corner +with a delicate forefinger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see +her on the doorstep, looking intently. + +He spoke as if to himself: “It has not been touched since then--no. +It was hardly big enough for him, so his legs hung over. Ah, yes, ten +years--Abroad, John Marcey!” Then, as if still musing, he turned to the +girl: “He had no father or mother--no one, of course; so that it wasn’t +so bad after all. If you’ve lived with the tongue in the last hole of +the buckle as you’ve gone, what matter when you go! C’est egal--it is +all the same.” + +Her face had become pale as he spoke, but no muscle stirred; only her +eyes filled with a deeper color, and her hand closed tightly on the +door-jamb. “Come in, Pierre,” she said, and entered. He followed her. +“My mother is at the Fort,” she added, “but she will be back soon.” + +She placed two chairs not far from the open door. They sat, and Pierre +slowly rolled a cigarette and lighted it. + +“How long have you lived here?” he asked presently. + +“It is seven years since we came first,” she replied. “After that night +they said the place was haunted, and no one would live in it, but when +my father died my mother and I came for three years. Then we went east, +and again came back, and here we have been.” + +“The shutter?” Pierre asked. + +They needed few explanations--their minds were moving with the same +thought. + +“I would not have it changed, and of course no one cared to touch it. So +it has hung there.” + +“As I placed it ten years ago,” he said. + +They both became silent for a time, and at last he said: “Marcey had no +one,--Sergeant Laforce a mother.” + +“It killed his mother,” she whispered, looking into the white sunlight. +She was noting how it was flashed from the bark of the birch-trees near +the Fort. + +“His mother died,” she added again, quietly. “It killed her--the gaol +for him!” + +“An eye for an eye,” he responded. + +“Do you think that evens John Marcey’s death?” she sighed. + +“As far as Marcey’s concerned,” he answered. “Laforce has his own +reckoning besides.” + +“It was not a murder,” she urged. + +“It was a fair fight,” he replied firmly, “and Laforce shot straight.” + He was trying to think why she lived here, why the broken shutter still +hung there, why the matter had settled so deeply on her. He remembered +the song she was singing, the legend of the Scarlet Hunter, the fabled +Savior of the North. + + “Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol-- + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, + (Why should the blind be drawn?)” + +He repeated the words, lingering on them. He loved to come at the truth +of things by allusive, far-off reflections, rather than by the sharp +questioning of the witness-box. He had imagination, refinement in such +things. A light dawned on him as he spoke the words--all became clear. +She sang of the Scarlet Hunter, but she meant someone else! That was +it-- + + “Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol-- + (Why should the door be shut?) + The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide, + (Why is the window barred?)” + +But why did she live here? To get used to a thought, to have it so near +her, that if the man--if Laforce himself came, she would have herself +schooled to endure the shadow and the misery of it all? Ah, that was +it! The little girl, who had seen her big lover killed, who had said she +would never forgive the other, who had sent him back the fretted-silver +basket, the riding-whip, and other things, had kept the criminal in +her mind all these years; had, out of her childish coquetry, grown +into--what? As a child she had been wise for her years--almost too wise. +What had happened? She had probably felt sorrow for Laforce at first, +and afterwards had shown active sympathy, and at last--no, he felt that +she had not quite forgiven him, that, whatever was, she had not hidden +the criminal in her heart. But why did she sing that song? Her heart +was pleading for him--for the criminal. Had she and her mother gone to +Winnipeg to be near Laforce, to comfort him? Was Laforce free now, and +was she unwilling? It was so strange that she should thus have carried +on her childhood into her womanhood. But he guessed her--she had +imagination. + +“His mother died in my arms in Winnipeg,” she said abruptly at last. +“I’m glad I was some comfort to her. You see, it all came through me--I +was so young and spoiled and silly--John Marcey’s death, her death, and +his long years in prison. Even then I knew better than to set the one +against the other. Must a child not be responsible? I was--I am!” + +“And so you punish yourself?” + +“It was terrible for me--even as a child. I said that I could never +forgive, but when his mother died, blessing me, I did. Then there came +something else.” + +“You saw him, there amie?” + +“I saw him--so changed, so quiet, so much older--all grey at the +temples. At first I lived here that I might get used to the thought of +the thing--to learn to bear it; and afterwards that I might learn--” She +paused, looking in half-doubt at Pierre. + +“It is safe; I am silent,” he said. + +“That I might learn to bear--him,” she continued. + +“Is he still--” Pierre paused. + +She spoke up quickly. “Oh no, he has been free two years.” + +“Where is he now?” + +“I don’t know.” She waited for a minute, then said again, “I don’t know. +When he was free, he came to me, but I--I could not. He thought, too, +that because he had been in gaol, that I wouldn’t--be his wife. He +didn’t think enough of himself, he didn’t urge anything. And I wasn’t +ready--no--no--no--how could I be! I didn’t care so much about the gaol, +but he had killed John Marcey. The gaol--what was that to me! There +was no real shame in it unless he had done a mean thing. He had been +wicked--not mean. Killing is awful, but not shameful. Think--the +difference--if he had been a thief!” + +Pierre nodded. “Then some one should have killed him!” he said. “Well, +after?” + +“After--after--ah, he went away for a year. Then he came back; but no, I +was always thinking of that night I walked behind John Marcey’s body +to the Fort. So he went away again, and we came here, and here we have +lived.” + +“He has not come here?” + +“No; once from the far north he sent me a letter by an Indian, saying +that he was going with a half-breed to search for a hunting party, an +English gentleman and two men who were lost. The name of one of the men +was Brickney.” + +Pierre stopped short in a long whiffing of smoke. “Holy!” he said, “that +thief Brickney again. He would steal the broad road to hell if he could +carry it. He once stole the quarters from a dead man’s eyes. Mon Dieu! +to save Brickney’s life, the courage to do that--like sticking your face +in the mire and eating!--But, pshaw!--go on, p’tite Lucille.” + +“There is no more. I never heard again.” + +“How long was that ago?” + +“Nine months or more.” + +“Nothing has been heard of any of them?” + +“Nothing at all. The Englishman belonged to the Hudson’s Bay Company, +but they have heard nothing down here at Fort Ste. Anne.” + +“If he saves the Company’s man, that will make up the man he lost for +them, eh--you think that, eh?” Pierre’s eyes had a curious ironical +light. + +“I do not care for the Company,” she said. “John Marcey’s life was his +own.” + +“Good!” he added quickly, and his eyes admired her. “That is the thing. +Then, do not forget that Marcey took his life in his hands himself, that +he would have killed Laforce if Laforce hadn’t killed him.” + +“I know, I know,” she said, “but I should have felt the same if John +Marcey had killed Stroke Laforce.” + +“It is a pity to throw your life away,” he ventured. He said this for a +purpose. He did not think she was throwing it away. + +She was watching a little knot of horsemen coming over a swell of the +prairie far off. She withdrew her eyes and fixed them on Pierre. “Do you +throw your life away if you do what is the only thing you are told to +do?” + +She placed her hand on her heart--that had been her one guide. + +Pierre got to his feet, came over, and touched her on the shoulder. + +“You have the great secret,” he said quietly. “The thing may be all +wrong to others, but if it’s right to yourself--that’s it--mais oui! If +he comes,” he added “if he comes back, think of him as well as Marcey. +Marcey is sleeping--what does it matter? If he is awake, he has better +times, for he was a man to make another world sociable. Think of +Laforce, for he has his life to live, and he is a man to make this world +sociable. + + ‘The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home-- + (Why should the door be shut?)’” + +Her eyes had been following the group of horsemen on the plains. She +again fixed them on Pierre, and stood up. + +“It is a beautiful legend--that,” she said. + +“But?--but?” he asked. + +She would not answer him. “You will come again,” she said; “you +will--help me?” + +“Surely, p’tite Lucille, surely, I will come. But to help--ah, that +would sound funny to the Missionary at the Fort and to others!” + +“You understand life,” she said, “and I can speak to you.” + +“It’s more to you to understand you than to be good, eh?” + +“I guess it’s more to any woman,” she answered. They both passed out of +the house. She turned towards the broken shutter. Then their eyes met. A +sad little smile hovered at her lips. + +“What is the use?” she said, and her eyes fastened on the horsemen. + +He knew now that she would never shudder again at the sight of it, or at +the remembrance of Marcey’s death. + +“But he will come,” was the reply to her, and her smile almost settled +and stayed. + +They parted, and as he went down the hill he saw far over, coming up, a +woman in black, who walked as if she carried a great weight. “Every shot +that kills ricochets,” he said to himself: + +“His mother dead--her mother like that!” + +He passed into the Fort, renewing acquaintances in the Company’s store, +and twenty minutes after he was one to greet the horsemen that Lucille +had seen coming over the hills. They were five, and one had to be helped +from his horse. It was Stroke Laforce, who had been found near dead at +the Metal River by a party of men exploring in the north. + +He had rescued the Englishman and his party, but within a day of the +finding the Englishman died, leaving him his watch, a ring, and a cheque +on the H. B. C. at Winnipeg. He and the two survivors, one of whom was +Brickney, started south. One night Brickney robbed him and made to get +away, and on his seizing the thief he was wounded. Then the other man +came to his help and shot Brickney: after that weeks of wandering, and +at last rescue and Fort Ste. Anne. + +A half-hour after this Pierre left Laforce on the crest of the hill +above the Fort, and did not turn to go down till he had seen the other +pass within the house with the broken shutter. And later he saw a +little bonfire on the hill. The next evening he came to the house again +himself. Lucille rose to meet him. + +“‘Why should the door be shut?”’ he quoted smiling. + +“The door is open,” she answered quickly and with a quiet joy. + +He turned to the motion of her hand, and saw Laforce asleep on a couch. + +Soon afterwards, as he passed from the house, he turned towards the +window. The broken shutter was gone. + +He knew now the meaning of the bonfire the night before. + + + + +THE FINDING OF FINGALL + +“Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!” + +A grey mist was rising from the river, the sun was drinking it +delightedly, the swift blue water showed underneath it, and the top of +Whitefaced Mountain peaked the mist by a hand-length. The river brushed +the banks like rustling silk, and the only other sound, very sharp and +clear in the liquid monotone, was the crack of a woodpecker’s beak on a +hickory tree. + +It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in Lonesome Valley. Before +night the deer would bellow reply to the hunters’ rifles, and the +mountain-goat call to its unknown gods; but now there was only the wild +duck skimming the river, and the high hilltop rising and fading into the +mist, the ardent sun, and again that strange cry-- + +“Fingall!--Oh, Fingall! Fingall!” + +Two men, lounging at a fire on a ledge of the hills, raised their eyes +to the mountain-side beyond and above them, and one said presently: + +“The second time. It’s a woman’s voice, Pierre.” Pierre nodded, and +abstractedly stirred the coals about with a twig. + +“Well, it is a pity--the poor Cynthie,” he said at last. + +“It is a woman, then. You know her, Pierre--her story?” + +“Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!” + +Pierre raised his head towards the sound; then after a moment, said: + +“I know Fingall.” + +“And the woman? Tell me.” + +“And the girl. Fingall was all fire and heart, and devil-may-care. +She--she was not beautiful except in the eye, but that was like a flame +of red and blue. Her hair, too--then--would trip her up, if it hung +loose. That was all, except that she loved him too much. But women--et +puis, when a woman gets a man between her and the heaven above and the +earth beneath, and there comes the great hunger, what is the good! A man +cannot understand, but he can see, and he can fear. What is the good! To +play with life, that is not much; but to play with a soul is more than a +thousand lives. Look at Cynthie.” + +He paused, and Lawless waited patiently. Presently Pierre continued: + +Fingall was gentil; he would take off his hat to a squaw. It made no +difference what others did; he didn’t think--it was like breathing to +him. How can you tell the way things happen? Cynthie’s father kept the +tavern at St. Gabriel’s Fork, over against the great saw-mill. Fingall +was foreman of a gang in the lumberyard. Cynthie had a brother--Fenn. +Fenn was as bad as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall knew it +well, though he hated the young skunk. The girl’s eyes were like two +little fire-flies when Fingall was about. + +“He was a gentleman, though he had only half a name--Fingall--like +that. I think he did not expect to stay; he seemed to be waiting +for something--always when the mail come in he would be there; and +afterwards you wouldn’t see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he +made up his mind to think nothing of Cynthie, and to say nothing.” + +“Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!” + +The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded nearer. “She’s coming this +way, Pierre,” said Lawless. + +“I hope not to see her. What is the good!” + +“Well, let us have the rest of the story.” + +“Her brother Fenn was in Fingall’s gang. One day there was trouble. Fenn +called Fingall a liar. The gang stopped piling; the usual thing did not +come. Fingall told him to leave the yard, and they would settle some +other time. That night a wicked thing happened. We were sitting in the +bar-room when we heard two shots and then a fall. We ran into the other +room; there was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted himself on his +elbow, pointed at Fingall--and fell back. The father of the boy stood +white and still a few feet away. There was no pistol showing--none at +all. + +“The men closed in on Fingall. He did not stir--he seemed to be thinking +of something else. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look. The men roared +round him, but he waved them back for a moment, and looked first at the +father, then at the son. I could not understand at first. Someone pulled +a pistol out of Fingall’s pocket and showed it. At that moment Cynthie +came in. She gave a cry. By the holy! I do not want to hear a cry like +that often. She fell on her knees beside the boy, and caught his head +to her breast. Then with a wild look she asked who did it. They had just +taken Fingall out into the bar-room. They did not tell her his name, for +they knew that she loved him. + +“‘Father,’ she said all at once, ‘have you killed the man that killed +Fenn?’ + +“The old man shook his head. There was a sick colour in his face. + +“‘Then I will kill him,’ she said. + +“She laid her brother’s head down, and stood up. Someone put in her hand +the pistol, and told her it was the same that had killed Fenn. She took +it, and came with us. The old man stood still where he was; he was like +stone. I looked at him for a minute and thought; then I turned round and +went to the bar-room; and he followed. Just as I got inside the door, +I saw the girl start back, and her hand drop, for she saw that it was +Fingall; he was looking at her very strange. It was the rule to empty +the gun into a man who had been sentenced; and already Fingall had heard +his, ‘God-have-mercy!’ The girl was to do it. + +“Fingall said to her in a muffled voice, ‘Fire--Cynthie!’ + +“I guessed what she would do. In a kind of a dream she raised the pistol +up--up--up, till I could see it was just out of range of his head, and +she fired. One! two! three! four! five! Fingall never moved a muscle; +but the bullets spotted the wall at the side of his head. She stopped +after the five; but the arm was still held out, and her finger was on +the trigger; she seemed to be all dazed. Only six chambers were in the +gun, and of course one chamber was empty. Fenn had its bullet in his +lungs, as we thought. So someone beside Cynthie touched her arm, pushing +it down. But there was another shot, and this time, because of the push, +the bullet lodged in Fingall’s skull.” + +Pierre paused now, and waved with his hand towards the mist which hung +high up like a canopy between the hills. + +“But,” said Lawless, not heeding the scene, “what about that sixth +bullet?” + +“Holy, it is plain! Fingall did not fire the shot. His revolver was +full, every chamber, when Cynthie first took it.” + +“Who killed the lad?” + +“Can you not guess? There had been words between the father and the +boy: both had fierce blood. The father, in a mad minute, fired; the +boy wanted revenge on Fingall, and, to save his father, laid it on the +other. The old man? Well, I do not know whether he was a coward, or +stupid, or ashamed--he let Fingall take it.” + +“Fingall took it to spare the girl, eh?” + +“For the girl. It wasn’t good for her to know her father killed his own +son.” + +“What came after?” + +“The worst. That night the girl’s father killed himself, and the two +were buried in the same grave. Cynthie--” + +“Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!” + +“You hear? Yes, like that all the time as she sat on the floor, her +hair about her like a cloud, and the dead bodies in the next room. She +thought she had killed Fingall, and she knew now that he was innocent. +The two were buried. Then we told her that Fingall was not dead. She +used to come and sit outside the door, and listen to his breathing, and +ask if he ever spoke of her. What was the good of lying? If we said he +did, she’d have come in to him, and that would do no good, for he wasn’t +right in his mind. By and by we told her he was getting well, and +then she didn’t come, but stayed at home, just saying his name over to +herself. Alors, things take hold of a woman--it is strange! When Fingall +was strong enough to go out, I went with him the first time. He was all +thin and handsome as you can think, but he had no memory, and his eyes +were like a child’s. She saw him, and came out to meet him. What does a +woman care for the world when she loves a man? Well, he just looked +at her as if he’d never seen her before, and passed by without a sign, +though afterwards a trouble came in his face. Three days later he was +gone, no one knew where. That is two years ago. Ever since she has been +looking for him.” + +“Is she mad?” + +“Mad? Holy Mother! it is not good to have one thing in the head all the +time! What do you think? So much all at once! And then--” + +“Hush, Pierre! There she is!” said Lawless, pointing to a ledge of rock +not far away. + +The girl stood looking out across the valley, a weird, rapt look in her +face, her hair falling loose, a staff like a shepherd’s crook in one +hand, the other hand over her eyes as she slowly looked from point to +point of the horizon. + +The two watched her without speaking. Presently she saw them. She gazed +at them for a minute, then descended to them. Lawless and Pierre rose, +doffing their hats. She looked at both a moment, and her eyes settled on +Pierre. Presently she held out her hand to him. “I knew you--yesterday,” + she said. + +Pierre returned the intensity of her gaze with one kind and strong. + +“So--so, Cynthie,” he said; “sit down and eat.” + +He dropped on a knee and drew a scone and some fish from the ashes. She +sat facing them, and, taking from a bag at her side some wild fruits, +ate slowly, saying nothing. Lawless noticed that her hair had become +grey at her temples, though she was but one-and-twenty years old. Her +face, brown as it was, shone with a white kind of light, which may, or +may not, have come from the crucible of her eyes, where the tragedy of +her life was fusing. Lawless could not bear to look long, for the fire +that consumes a body and sets free a soul is not for the sight of the +quick. At last she rose, her body steady, but her hands having that +tremulous activity of her eyes. + +“Will you not stay, Cynthie?” asked Lawless very kindly. + +She came close to him, and, after searching his eyes, said with a smile +that almost hurt him, “When I have found him, I will bring him to your +camp-fire. Last night the Voice said that he waits for me where the mist +rises from the river at daybreak, close to the home of the White Swan. +Do you know where is the home of the White Swan? Before the frost comes +and the red wolf cries, I must find him. Winter is the time of sleep. + +“I will give him honey and dried meat. I know where we shall live +together. You never saw such roses! Hush! I have a place where we can +hide.” + +Suddenly her gaze became fixed and dream-like, and she said slowly: “In +all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the hour of +death, and in the Day of Judgment, Good Lord, deliver us!” + +“Good Lord, deliver us!” repeated Lawless in a low voice. Without +looking at them, she slowly turned away and passed up the hill-side, her +eyes scanning the valley as before. + +“Good Lord, deliver us!” again said Lawless. “Where did she get it?” + +“From a book which Fingall left behind.” + +They watched her till she rounded a cliff, and was gone; then they +shouldered their kits and passed up the river on the trail of the +wapiti. + +One month later, when a fine white surf of frost lay on the ground, and +the sky was darkened often by the flight of the wild geese southward, +they came upon a hut perched on a bluff, at the edge of a clump of +pines. It was morning, and Whitefaced Mountain shone clear and high, +without a touch of cloud or mist from its haunches to its crown. + +They knocked at the hut door, and, in answer to a voice, entered. The +sunlight streamed in over a woman, lying upon a heap of dried flowers +in a corner. A man was kneeling beside her. They came near, and saw that +the woman was Cynthie. + +“Fingall!” broke out Pierre, and caught the kneeling man by the +shoulder. At the sound of his voice the woman’s eyes opened. + +“Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!” she said, and reached up a hand. + +Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: “Cynthie! poor girl! Oh, +my poor Cynthie!” he said. In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, +and his voice, as hers, said indescribable things. + +Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes closed; she slept. Fingall +laid her down with a sob in his throat; then he sat up and clutched +Pierre’s hand. + +“In the East, where the doctors cured me, I heard all,” he said, +pointing to her, “and I came to find her. I was just in time; I found +her yesterday.” + +“She knew you?” whispered Pierre. + +“Yes, but this fever came on.” He turned and looked at her, and, +kneeling, smoothed away the hair from the quiet face. “Poor girl!” he +said; “poor girl!” + +“She will get well?” asked Pierre. + +“God grant it!” Fingall replied. “She is better--better.” + +Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole away, leaving the man alone +with the woman he loved. + +The two stood in silence, looking upon the river beneath. Presently a +voice crept through the stillness. “Fingall! Oh, Fingall!--Fingall!” + +It was the voice of a woman returning from the dead. + + + + +THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE + + +I + +“Read on, Pierre,” the sick man said, doubling the corner of the +wolf-skin pillow so that it shaded his face from the candle. + +Pierre smiled to himself, thinking of the unusual nature of his +occupation, raised an eyebrow as if to someone sitting at the other side +of the fire,--though the room was empty save for the two--and went on +reading: + + “Woe to the multitude of many people, which make a noise like the + noise of the seas; and to the rushing of nations, that make a + rushing like the rushing of mighty waters! + + “The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters: but God + shall rebuke them, and they shall flee far off, and shall be chased + as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling + thing before the whirlwind. + + “And behold at evening-tide trouble; and before the morning he is + not. This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them + that rob us.” + +The sick man put up his hand, motioning for silence, and Pierre, leaving +the Bible open, laid it at his side. Then he fell to studying the figure +on the couch. The body, though reduced by a sudden illness, had an +appearance of late youth, a firmness of mature manhood; but the hair was +grey, the beard was grizzled, and the face was furrowed and seamed as +though the man had lived a long, hard life. The body seemed thirty +years old, the head sixty; the man’s exact age was forty-five. His most +singular characteristic was a fine, almost spiritual intelligence, which +showed in the dewy brightness of the eye, in the lighted face, in +the cadenced definiteness of his speech. One would have said, knowing +nothing of him, that he was a hermit; but again, noting the firm, +graceful outlines of his body, that he was a soldier. Within the past +twenty-four hours he had had a fight for life with one of the terrible +“colds” which, like an unstayed plague, close up the courses of the +body, and carry a man out of the hurly-burly, without pause to say how +much or how little he cares to go. + +Pierre, whose rude skill in medicine was got of hard experiences here +and there, had helped him back into the world again, and was himself +now a little astonished at acting as Scripture reader to a Protestant +invalid. Still, the Bible was like his childhood itself, always with him +in memory, and Old Testament history was as wine to his blood. The lofty +tales sang in his veins: of primitive man, adventure, mysterious and +exalted romance. For nearly an hour, with absorbing interest, he had +read aloud from these ancient chronicles to Fawdor, who held this Post +of the Hudson’s Bay Company in the outer wilderness. + +Pierre had arrived at the Post three days before, to find a half-breed +trapper and an Indian helpless before the sickness which was hurrying to +close on John Fawdor’s heart and clamp it in the vice of death. He had +come just in time. He was now ready to learn, by what ways the future +should show, why this man, of such unusual force and power, should have +lived at a desolate post in Labrador for twenty-five years. + +“‘This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them that +rob us--’” Fawdor repeated the words slowly, and then said: “It is +good to be out of the restless world. Do you know the secret of life, +Pierre?” + +Pierre’s fingers unconsciously dropped on the Bible at his side, +drumming the leaves. His eyes wandered over Fawdor’s face, and presently +he answered, “To keep your own commandments.” + +“The ten?” asked the sick man, pointing to the Bible. Pierre’s fingers +closed the book. “Not the ten, for they do not fit all; but one by one +to make your own, and never to break--comme ca!” + +“The answer is well,” returned Fawdor; “but what is the greatest +commandment that a man can make for himself?” + +“Who can tell? What is the good of saying, ‘Thou shalt keep holy the +Sabbath day,’ when a man lives where he does not know the days? What is +the good of saying, ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ when a man has no heart to +rob, and there is nothing to steal? But a man should have a heart, an +eye for justice. It is good for him to make his commandments against +that wherein he is a fool or has a devil. Justice,--that is the thing.” + +“‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour’?” asked +Fawdor softly. + +“Yes, like that. But a man must put it in his own words, and keep the +law which he makes. Then life does not give a bad taste in the mouth.” + +“What commandments have you made for yourself, Pierre?” + +The slumbering fire in Pierre’s face leaped up. He felt for an instant +as his father, a chevalier of France, might have felt if a peasant had +presumed to finger the orders upon his breast. It touched his native +pride, so little shown in anything else. But he knew the spirit behind +the question, and the meaning justified the man. “Thou shalt think +with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman,” he said, and +paused. + +“Justice and mercy,” murmured the voice from the bed. + +“Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket.” Again Pierre paused. + +“And a man shall have no cause to fear his friend,” said the voice +again. + +The pause was longer this time, and Pierre’s cold, handsome face took +on a kind of softness before he said, “Remember the sorrow of thine own +wife.” + +“It is a good commandment,” said the sick man, “to make all women safe +whether they be true--or foolish.” + +“The strong should be ashamed to prey upon the weak. Pshaw! such a sport +ends in nothing. Man only is man’s game.” + +Suddenly Pierre added: “When you thought you were going to die, you gave +me some papers and letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. Shall I +give them back? Will you take them yourself?” + +Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know his story. He reached out a +hand, saying, “I will take them myself. You have not read them?” + +“No. I was not to read them till you died--bien?” He handed the packet +over. + +“I will tell you the story,” Fawdor said, turning over on his side, so +that his eyes rested full on Pierre. + +He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the finest and yet wildest +breed, which had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, opened +its red eyes at the two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and +sniffed at the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing restlessly +around the room. Every little while it would stop, sniff the air, and go +on again. Once or twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick man, +it paused, and at last it suddenly rose, rested two feet on the rude +headboard of the couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid’s head. +There was something rarely savage and yet beautifully soft in the dog’s +face, scarred as it was by the whips of earlier owners. The sick man’s +hand went up and caressed the wolfish head. “Good dog, good Akim!” he +said softly in French. “Thou dost know when a storm is on the way; thou +dost know, too, when there is a storm in my heart.” + +Even as he spoke a wind came crying round the house, and the parchment +windows gave forth a soft booming sound. Outside, Nature was trembling +lightly in all her nerves; belated herons, disturbed from the freshly +frozen pool, swept away on tardy wings into the night and to the south; +a herd of wolves, trooping by the hut, passed from a short, easy trot +to a low, long gallop, devouring, yet fearful. It appeared as though +the dumb earth were trying to speak, and the mighty effort gave it pain, +from which came awe and terror to living things. + +So, inside the house, also, Pierre almost shrank from the unknown sorrow +of this man beside him, who was about to disclose the story of his life. +The solitary places do not make men glib of tongue; rather, spare of +words. They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly, being +given the woe of imagination, bring forth inner history as a mother +gasps life into the world. + +“I was only a boy of twenty-one,” Fawdor said from the pillow, as he +watched the dog noiselessly travelling from corner to corner, “and I had +been with the Company three years. They had said that I could rise fast; +I had done so. I was ambitious; yet I find solace in thinking that I saw +only one way to it,--by patience, industry, and much thinking. I read +a great deal, and cared for what I read; but I observed also, that in +dealing with men I might serve myself and the Company wisely. + +“One day the governor of the Company came from England, and with him a +sweet lady, his young niece, and her brother. They arranged for a tour +to the Great Lakes, and I was chosen to go with them in command of the +boatmen. It appeared as if a great chance had come to me, and so said +the factor at Lachine on the morning we set forth. The girl was as +winsome as you can think; not of such wonderful beauty, but with a face +that would be finer old than young; and a dainty trick of humour had she +as well. The governor was a testy man; he could not bear to be crossed +in a matter; yet, in spite of all, I did not think he had a wilful +hardness. It was a long journey, and we were set to our wits to make it +always interesting; but we did it somehow, for there were fishing and +shooting, and adventure of one sort and another, and the lighter things, +such as singing and the telling of tales, as the boatmen rowed the long +river. + +“We talked of many things as we travelled, and I was glad to listen to +the governor, for he had seen and read much. It was clear he liked +to have us hang upon his tales and his grand speeches, which seemed a +little large in the mouth; and his nephew, who had a mind for raillery, +was now and again guilty of some witty impertinence; but this was hard +to bring home to him, for he could assume a fine childlike look when he +pleased, confusing to his accusers. Towards the last he grew bolder, +and said many a biting thing to both the governor and myself, which more +than once turned his sister’s face pale with apprehension, for she had a +nice sense of kindness. Whenever the talk was at all general, it was his +delight to turn one against the other. Though I was wary, and the girl +understood his game, at last he had his way. + +“I knew Shakespeare and the Bible very well, and, like most bookish +young men, phrase and motto were much on my tongue, though not always +given forth. One evening, as we drew to the camp-fire, a deer broke from +the woods and ran straight through the little circle we were making, and +disappeared in the bushes by the riverside. Someone ran for a rifle; but +the governor forbade, adding, with an air, a phrase with philosophical +point. I, proud of the chance to show I was not a mere backwoodsman +at such a sport, capped his aphorism with a line from Shakespeare’s +Cymbeline. + +“‘Tut, tut!’ said the governor smartly; ‘you haven’t it well, Mr. +Fawdor; it goes this way,’ and he went on to set me right. His nephew +at that stepped in, and, with a little disdainful laugh at me, made some +galling gibe at my ‘distinguished learning.’ I might have known better +than to let it pique me, but I spoke up again, though respectfully +enough, that I was not wrong. It appeared to me all at once as if some +principle were at stake, as if I were the champion of our Shakespeare; +so will vanity delude us. + +“The governor--I can see it as if it were yesterday--seemed to go like +ice, for he loved to be thought infallible in all such things as well as +in great business affairs, and his nephew was there to give an edge to +the matter. He said, curtly, that I would probably come on better in the +world if I were more exact and less cock-a-hoop with myself. That stung +me, for not only was the young lady looking on with a sort of superior +pity, as I thought, but her brother was murmuring to her under his +breath with a provoking smile. I saw no reason why I should be treated +like a schoolboy. As far as my knowledge went it was as good as another +man’s, were he young or old, so I came in quickly with my reply. I said +that his excellency should find me more cock-a-hoop with Shakespeare +than with myself. ‘Well, well,’ he answered, with a severe look, ‘our +Company has need of great men for hard tasks.’ To this I made no answer, +for I got a warning look from the young lady,--a look which had a +sort of reproach and command too. She knew the twists and turns of her +uncle’s temper, and how he was imperious and jealous in little things. +The matter dropped for the time; but as the governor was going to his +tent for the night, the young lady said to me hurriedly, ‘My uncle is a +man of great reading--and power, Mr. Fawdor. I would set it right with +him, if I were you.’ For the moment I was ashamed. You cannot guess how +fine an eye she had, and how her voice stirred one! She said no more, +but stepped inside her tent; and then I heard the brother say over my +shoulder, ‘Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!’ Afterwards, +with a little laugh and a backward wave of the hand, as one might toss a +greeting to a beggar, he was gone also, and I was left alone.” + +Fawdor paused in his narrative. The dog had lain down by the fire again, +but its red eyes were blinking at the door, and now and again it growled +softly, and the long hair at its mouth seemed to shiver with feeling. +Suddenly through the night there rang a loud, barking cry. The dog’s +mouth opened and closed in a noiseless snarl, showing its keen, long +teeth, and a ridge of hair bristled on its back. But the two men made no +sign or motion. The cry of wild cats was no new thing to them. + +Presently the other continued: “I sat by the fire and heard beasts howl +like that, I listened to the river churning over the rapids below, and +I felt all at once a loneliness that turned me sick. There were three +people in a tent near me; I could even hear the governor’s breathing; +but I appeared to have no part in the life of any human being, as if I +were a kind of outlaw of God and man. I was poor; I had no friends; I +was at the mercy of this great Company; if I died, there was not a human +being who, so far as I knew, would shed a tear. Well, you see I was only +a boy, and I suppose it was the spirit of youth hungering for the huge, +active world and the companionship of ambitious men. There is no one +so lonely as the young dreamer on the brink of life. I was lying by +the fire. It was not a cold night, and I fell asleep at last without +covering. I did not wake till morning, and then it was to find the +governor’s nephew building up the fire again. ‘Those who are born +great,’ said he, ‘are bound to rise.’ But perhaps he saw that I had +had a bad night, and felt that he had gone far enough, for he presently +said, in a tone more to my liking, ‘Take my advice, Mr. Fawdor; make it +right with my uncle. It isn’t such fast rising in the Company that you +can afford to quarrel with its governor. I’d go on the other tack: don’t +be too honest.’ I thanked him, and no more was said; but I liked him +better, for I saw that he was one of those who take pleasure in dropping +nettles more to see the weakness of human nature than from malice. + +“But my good fortune had got a twist, and it was not to be straightened +that day; and because it was not straightened then it was not to be at +all; for at five o’clock we came to the Post at Lachine, and here the +governor and the others were to stop. During all the day I had waited +for my chance to say a word of apology to his excellency, but it was +no use; nothing seemed to help me, for he was busy with his papers and +notes, and I also had to finish up my reports. The hours went by, and +I saw my chances drift past. I knew that the governor held the thing +against me, and not the less because he saw me more than once that day +in speech with his niece. For she appeared anxious to cheer me, and +indeed I think we might have become excellent friends had our ways run +together. She could have bestowed her friendship on me without shame to +herself, for I had come of an old family in Scotland, the Sheplaws of +Canfire, which she knew, as did the governor also, was a more ancient +family than their own. Yet her kindness that day worked me no good, and +I went far to make it worse, since, under the spell of her gentleness, +I looked at her far from distantly, and at the last, as she was getting +from the boat, returned the pressure of her hand with much interest. I +suppose something of the pride of that moment leaped up in my eye, for +I saw the governor’s face harden more and more, and the brother shrugged +an ironical shoulder. I was too young to see or know that the chief +thing in the girl’s mind was regret that I had so hurt my chances; for +she knew, as I saw only too well afterwards, that I might have been +rewarded with a leaping promotion in honour of the success of the +journey. But though the boatmen got a gift of money and tobacco and +spirits, nothing came to me save the formal thanks of the governor, as +he bowed me from his presence. + +“The nephew came with his sister to bid me farewell. There was little +said between her and me, and it was a long, long time before she knew +the end of that day’s business. But the brother said, ‘You’ve let the +chance go by, Mr. Fawdor. Better luck next time, eh? And,’ he went on, +‘I’d give a hundred editions the lie, but I’d read the text according to +my chief officer. The words of a king are always wise while his head is +on,’ he declared further, and he drew from his scarf a pin of pearls and +handed it to me. ‘Will you wear that for me, Mr. Fawdor?’ he asked; and +I, who had thought him but a stripling with a saucy pride, grasped his +hand and said a God-keep-you. It does me good now to think I said it. I +did not see him or his sister again. + +“The next day was Sunday. About two o’clock I was sent for by the +governor. When I got to the Post and was admitted to him, I saw that my +misadventure was not over. ‘Mr. Fawdor,’ said he coldly, spreading out a +map on the table before him, ‘you will start at once for Fort Ungava, at +Ungava Bay, in Labrador.’ I felt my heart stand still for a moment, and +then surge up and down, like a piston-rod under a sudden rush of steam. +‘You will proceed now,’ he went on, in his hard voice, ‘as far as the +village of Pont Croix. There you will find three Indians awaiting you. +You will go on with them as far as Point St. Saviour and camp for the +night, for if the Indians remain in the village they may get drunk. The +next morning, at sunrise, you will move on. The Indians know the trail +across Labrador to Fort Ungava. When you reach there, you will take +command of the Post and remain till further orders. Your clothes are +already at the village. I have had them packed, and you will find there +also what is necessary for the journey. The factor at Ungava was there +ten years; he has gone--to heaven.’ + +“I cannot tell what it was held my tongue silent, that made me only +bow my head in assent, and press my lips together. I knew I was pale as +death, for as I turned to leave the room I caught sight of my face in a +little mirror tacked on the door, and I hardly recognised myself. + +“‘Good-day, Mr. Fawdor,’ said the governor, handing me the map. ‘There +is some brandy in your stores; be careful that none of your Indians +get it. If they try to desert, you know what to do.’ With a gesture of +dismissal he turned, and began to speak with the chief trader. + +“For me, I went from that room like a man condemned to die. Fort Ungava +in Labrador,--a thousand miles away, over a barren, savage country, and +in winter too; for it would be winter there immediately! It was an exile +to Siberia, and far worse than Siberia; for there are many there to +share the fellowship of misery, and I was likely to be the only white +man at Fort Ungava. As I passed from the door of the Post the words of +Shakespeare which had brought all this about sang in my ears.” He ceased +speaking, and sank back wearily among the skins of his couch. Out of the +enveloping silence Pierre’s voice came softly: + +“Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one +woman.” + + + +II + +“The journey to the village of Pont Croix was that of a man walking over +graves. Every step sent a pang to my heart,--a boy of twenty-one, grown +old in a moment. It was not that I had gone a little lame from a hurt +got on the expedition with the governor, but my whole life seemed +suddenly lamed. Why did I go? Ah, you do not know how discipline gets +into a man’s bones, the pride, the indignant pride of obedience! At that +hour I swore that I should myself be the governor of that Company one +day,--the boast of loud-hearted youth. I had angry visions, I dreamed +absurd dreams, but I did not think of disobeying. It was an unheard-of +journey at such a time, but I swore that I would do it, that it should +go into the records of the Company. + +“I reached the village, found the Indians, and at once moved on to the +settlement where we were to stay that night. Then my knee began to pain +me. I feared inflammation; so in the dead of night I walked back to the +village, roused a trader of the Company, got some liniment and other +trifles, and arrived again at St. Saviour’s before dawn. My few clothes +and necessaries came in the course of the morning, and by noon we were +fairly started on the path to exile. + +“I remember that we came to a lofty point on the St. Lawrence just +before we plunged into the woods, to see the great stream no more. I +stood and looked back up the river towards the point where Lachine lay. +All that went to make the life of a Company’s man possible was there; +and there, too, were those with whom I had tented and travelled for +three long months,--eaten with them, cared for them, used for them all +the woodcraft that I knew. I could not think that it would be a young +man’s lifetime before I set eyes on that scene again. Never from that +day to this have I seen the broad, sweet river where I spent the three +happiest years of my life. I can see now the tall shining heights of +Quebec, the pretty wooded Island of Orleans, the winding channel, so +deep, so strong. The sun was three-fourths of its way down in the west, +and already the sky was taking on the deep red and purple of autumn. +Somehow, the thing that struck me most in the scene was a bunch of +pines, solemn and quiet, their tops burnished by the afternoon light. +Tears would have been easy then. But my pride drove them back from my +eyes to my angry heart. Besides, there were my Indians waiting, and the +long journey lay before us. Then, perhaps because there was none nearer +to make farewell to, or I know not why, I waved my hand towards the +distant village of Lachine, and, with the sweet maid in my mind who had +so gently parted from me yesterday, I cried, ‘Good-bye, and God bless +you.’” + +He paused. Pierre handed him a wooden cup, from which he drank, and then +continued: + +“The journey went forward. You have seen the country. You know what it +is: those bare ice-plains and rocky unfenced fields stretching to all +points, the heaving wastes of treeless country, the harsh frozen lakes. +God knows what insupportable horror would have settled on me in +that pilgrimage had it not been for occasional glimpses of a gentler +life--for the deer and caribou which crossed our path. Upon my soul, I +was so full of gratitude and love at the sight that I could have thrown +my arms round their necks and kissed them. I could not raise a gun at +them. My Indians did that, and so inconstant is the human heart that I +ate heartily of the meat. My Indians were almost less companionable to +me than any animal would have been. Try as I would, I could not bring +myself to like them, and I feared only too truly that they did not like +me. Indeed, I soon saw that they meant to desert me,--kill me, perhaps, +if they could, although I trusted in the wholesome and restraining fear +which the Indian has of the great Company. I was not sure that they were +guiding me aright, and I had to threaten death in case they tried to +mislead me or desert me. My knee at times was painful, and cold, hunger, +and incessant watchfulness wore on me vastly. Yet I did not yield to +my miseries, for there entered into me then not only the spirit of +endurance, but something of that sacred pride in suffering which was the +merit of my Covenanting forefathers. + +“We were four months on that bitter travel, and I do not know how it +could have been made at all, had it not been for the deer that I had +heart to eat and none to kill. The days got shorter and shorter, and we +were sometimes eighteen hours in absolute darkness. Thus you can imagine +how slowly we went. Thank God, we could sleep, hid away in our fur bags, +more often without a fire than with one,--mere mummies stretched out +on a vast coverlet of white, with the peering, unfriendly sky above us; +though it must be said that through all those many, many weeks no cloud +perched in the zenith. When there was light there was sun, and the +courage of it entered into our bones, helping to save us. You may think +I have been made feeble-minded by my sufferings, but I tell you plainly +that, in the closing days of our journey, I used to see a tall figure +walking beside me, who, whenever I would have spoken to him, laid a +warning finger on his lips; but when I would have fallen, he spoke to +me, always in the same words. You have heard of him, the Scarlet Hunter +of the Kimash Hills. It was he, the Sentinel of the North, the Lover of +the Lost. So deep did his words go into my heart that they have remained +with me to this hour.” + +“I saw him once in the White Valley,” Pierre said in a low voice. “What +was it he said to you?” + +The other drew a long breath, and a smile rested on his lips. Then, +slowly, as though liking to linger over them, he repeated the words of +the Scarlet Hunter: + + “‘O son of man, behold! + If thou shouldest stumble on the nameless trail, + The trail that no man rides, + Lift up thy heart, + Behold, O son of man, thou hast a helper near! + + “‘O son of man, take heed! + If thou shouldst fall upon the vacant plain, + The plain that no man loves, + Reach out thy hand, + Take heed, O son of man, strength shall be given thee! + + “‘O son of man, rejoice! + If thou art blinded even at the door, + The door of the Safe Tent, + Sing in thy heart, + Rejoice, O son of man, thy pilot leads thee home?’ + +“I never seemed to be alone after that--call it what you will, fancy or +delirium. My head was so light that it appeared to spin like a star, +and my feet were so heavy that I dragged the whole earth after me. My +Indians seldom spoke. I never let them drop behind me, for I did not +trust their treacherous natures. But in the end, as it would seem, they +also had but one thought, and that to reach Fort Ungava; for there was +no food left, none at all. We saw no tribes of Indians and no Esquimaux, +for we had not passed in their line of travel or settlement. + +“At last I used to dream that birds were singing near me,--a soft, +delicate whirlwind of sound; and then bells all like muffled silver rang +through the aching, sweet air. Bits of prayer and poetry I learned when +a boy flashed through my mind; equations in algebra; the tingling scream +of a great buzz-saw; the breath of a racer as he nears the post under +the crying whip; my own voice dropping loud profanity, heard as a lad +from a blind ferryman; the boom! boom! of a mass of logs as they struck +a house on a flooding river and carried it away.... + +“One day we reached the end. It was near evening, and we came to the +top of a wooded knoll. My eyes were dancing in my head with fatigue +and weakness, but I could see below us, on the edge of the great bay, a +large hut, Esquimau lodges and Indian tepees near it. It was the Fort, +my cheerless prison-house.” + +He paused. The dog had been watching him with its flaming eyes; now it +gave a low growl, as though it understood, and pitied. In the interval +of silence the storm without broke. The trees began to quake and cry, +the light snow to beat upon the parchment windows, and the chimney to +splutter and moan. Presently, out on the bay they could hear the young +ice break and come scraping up the shore. Fawdor listened a while, and +then went on, waving his hand to the door as he began: “Think! this, +and like that always: the ungodly strife of nature, and my sick, +disconsolate life.” + +“Ever since?” asked Pierre. “All the time.” + +“Why did you not go back?” + +“I was to wait for orders, and they never came.” + +“You were a free man, not a slave.” + +“The human heart has pride. At first, as when I left the governor at +Lachine, I said, ‘I will never speak, I will never ask nor bend the +knee. He has the power to oppress; I can obey without whining, as fine a +man as he.’” + +“Did you not hate?” + +“At first, as only a banished man can hate. I knew that if all had gone +well I should be a man high up in the Company, and here I was, living +like a dog in the porch of the world, sometimes without other food for +months than frozen fish; and for two years I was in a place where we had +no fire,--lived in a snow-house, with only blubber to eat. And so year +after year, no word!” + +“The mail came once every year from the world?” “Yes, once a year the +door of the outer life was opened. A ship came into the bay, and by that +ship I sent out my reports. But no word came from the governor, and +no request went from me. Once the captain of that ship took me by the +shoulders, and said, ‘Fawdor, man, this will drive you mad. Come away to +England,--leave your half-breed in charge,--and ask the governor for a +big promotion.’ He did not understand. Of course I said I could not go. +Then he turned on me, he was a good man,--and said, ‘This will either +make you madman or saint, Fawdor.’ He drew a Bible from his pocket and +handed it to me. ‘I’ve used it twenty years,’ he said, ‘in evil and out +of evil, and I’ve spiked it here and there; it’s a chart for heavy seas, +and may you find it so, my lad.’ + +“I said little then; but when I saw the sails of his ship round a cape +and vanish, all my pride and strength were broken up, and I came in a +heap to the ground, weeping like a child. But the change did not come +all at once. There were two things that kept me hard.” + +“The girl?” + +“The girl, and another. But of the young lady after. I had a half-breed +whose life I had saved. I was kind to him always; gave him as good to +eat and drink as I had myself; divided my tobacco with him; loved him as +only an exile can love a comrade. He conspired with the Indians to seize +the Fort and stores, and kill me if I resisted. I found it out.” + +“Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket,” said Pierre. “What did +you do with him?” + +“The fault was not his so much as of his race and his miserable past. I +had loved him. I sent him away; and he never came back.” + +“Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one +woman.” + +“For the girl. There was the thing that clamped my heart. Never a +message from her or her brother. Surely they knew, and yet never, +thought I, a good word for me to the governor. They had forgotten the +faith of food and blanket. And she--she must have seen that I could have +worshipped her, had we been in the same way of life. Before the better +days came to me I was hard against her, hard and rough at heart.” + +“Remember the sorrow of thine own wife.” Pierre’s voice was gentle. + +“Truly, to think hardly of no woman should be always in a man’s heart. +But I have known only one woman of my race in twenty-five years!” + +“And as time went on?” + +“As time went on, and no word came, I ceased to look for it. But I +followed that chart spiked with the captain’s pencil, as he had done +it in season and out of season, and by and by I ceased to look for any +word. I even became reconciled to my life. The ambitious and aching +cares of the world dropped from me, and I stood above all--alone in my +suffering, yet not yielding. Loneliness is a terrible thing. Under it a +man--” + +“Goes mad or becomes a saint--a saint!” Pierre’s voice became reverent. + +Fawdor shook his head, smiling gently. “Ah no, no. But I began to +understand the world, and I loved the north, the beautiful hard north.” + +“But there is more?” + +“Yes, the end of it all. Three days before you came I got a packet of +letters, not by the usual yearly mail. One announced that the governor +was dead. Another--” + +“Another?” urged Pierre--“was from Her. She said that her brother, on +the day she wrote, had by chance come across my name in the Company’s +records, and found that I had been here a quarter of a century. It +was the letter of a good woman. She said she thought the governor had +forgotten that he had sent me here--as now I hope he had, for that would +be one thing less for him to think of, when he set out on the journey +where the only weight man carries is the packload of his sins. She also +said that she had written to me twice after we parted at Lachine, but +had never heard a word, and three years afterwards she had gone to +India. The letters were lost, I suppose, on the way to me, somehow--who +can tell? Then came another thing, so strange, that it seemed like +the laughter of the angels at us. These were her words: ‘And, dear +Mr. Fawdor, you were both wrong in that quotation, as you no doubt +discovered long ago.’ Then she gave me the sentence as it is in +Cymbeline. She was right, quite right. We were both wrong. Never till +her letter came had I looked to see. How vain, how uncertain, and +fallible, is man!” + +Pierre dropped his cigarette, and stared at Fawdor. “The knowledge of +books is foolery,” he said slowly. “Man is the only book of life. Go +on.” + +“There was another letter, from the brother, who was now high up in the +Company, asking me to come to England, and saying that they wished to +promote me far, and that he and his sister, with their families, would +be glad to see me.” + +“She was married then?” + +The rashness of the suggestion made Fawdor wave his hand impatiently. He +would not reply to it. “I was struck down with all the news,” he said. +“I wandered like a child out into a mad storm. Illness came; then you, +who have nursed me back to life.... And now I have told all.” + +“Not all, bien sur. What will you do?” + +“I am out of the world; why tempt it all again? See how those +twenty-five years were twisted by a boy’s vanity and a man’s tyranny!” + +“But what will you do?” persisted Pierre. “You should see the faces of +women and children again. No man can live without that sight, even as a +saint.” + +Suddenly Fawdor’s face was shot over with a storm of feeling. He lay +very still, his thoughts busy with a new world which had been disclosed +to him. “Youth hungers for the vanities,” he said, “and the middle-aged +for home.” He took Pierre’s hand. “I will go,” he added. “A door will +open somewhere for me.” + +Then he turned his face to the wall. The storm had ceased, the wild +dog huddled quietly on the hearth, and for hours the only sound was the +crackling of the logs as Pierre stirred the fire. + + + + +LITTLE BABICHE + +“No, no, m’sieu’ the governor, they did not tell you right. I was with +him, and I have known Little Babiche fifteen years--as long as I’ve +known you.... It was against the time when down in your world there they +have feastings, and in the churches the grand songs and many candles on +the altars. Yes, Noel, that is the word--the day of the Great Birth. You +shall hear how strange it all was--the thing, the time, the end of it.” + +The governor of the great Company settled back in a chair, his powerful +face seamed by years, his hair grey and thick still, his keen, steady +eyes burning under shaggy brows. He had himself spent long solitary +years in the wild fastnesses of the north. He fastened his dark eyes on +Pierre, and said: “Monsieur Pierre, I shall be glad to hear. It was at +the time of Noel--yes?” + +Pierre began: “You have seen it beautiful and cold in the north, but +never so cold and beautiful as it was last year. The world was white +with sun and ice, the frost never melting, the sun never warming--just +a glitter, so lovely, so deadly. If only you could keep the heart warm, +you were not afraid. But if once--just for a moment--the blood ran out +from the heart and did not come in again, the frost clamped the doors +shut, and there was an end of all. Ah, m’sieu’, when the north clinches +a man’s heart in anger there is no pain like it--for a moment.” + +“Yes, yes; and Little Babiche?” + +“For ten years he carried the mails along the route of Fort St. Mary, +Fort O’Glory, Fort St. Saviour, and Fort Perseverance within the +circle-just one mail once a year, but that was enough. There he was with +his Esquimaux dogs on the trail, going and coming, with a laugh and a +word for anyone that crossed his track. ‘Good-day, Babiche’ ‘Good-day, +m’sieu’.’ ‘How do you, Babiche?’ ‘Well, thank the Lord, m’sieu’.’ ‘Where +to and where from, Babiche?’ ‘To the Great Fort by the old trail, +from the Far-off River, m’sieu’.’ ‘Come safe along, Babiche.’ ‘Merci, +m’sieu’; the good God travels north, m’sieu’.’ ‘Adieu, Babiche.’ ‘Adieu, +m’sieu’.’ That is about the way of the thing, year after year. Sometimes +a night at a hut or a post, but mostly alone--alone, except for the +dogs. He slept with them, and they slept on the mails--to guard: as +though there should be highwaymen on the Prairie of the Ten Stars! But +no, it was his way, m’sieu’. Now and again I crossed him on the trail, +for have I not travelled to every corner of the north? We were not so +great friends, for--well, Babiche is a man who says his aves, and never +was a loafer, and there was no reason why he should have love for me; +but we were good company when we met. I knew him when he was a boy down +on the Chaudiere, and he always had a heart like a lion-and a woman. +I had seen him fight, I had seen him suffer cold, and I had heard him +sing. + +“Well, I was up last fall to Fort St. Saviour. Ho, how dull was it! +Macgregor, the trader there, has brains like rubber. So I said, I will +go down to Fort O’Glory. I knew someone would be there--it is nearer the +world. So I started away with four dogs and plenty of jerked buffalo, +and so much brown brandy as Macgregor could squeeze out of his eye! +Never, never were there such days--the frost shaking like steel and +silver as it powdered the sunlight, the white level of snow lifting and +falling, and falling and lifting, the sky so great a travel away, the +air which made you cry out with pain one minute and gave you joy the +next. And all so wild, so lonely! Yet I have seen hanging in those +plains cities all blue and red with millions of lights showing, and +voices, voices everywhere, like the singing of soft masses. After a +time in that cold up there you are no longer yourself--no. You move in +a dream. Eh bien, m’sieu’, there came, I thought, a dream to me one +evening--well, perhaps one afternoon, for the days are short--so short, +the sun just coming over a little bend of sky, and sinking down like a +big orange ball. I come out of a tumble of little hills, and there over +on the plains I saw a sight! Ragged hills of ice were thrown up, as if +they’d been heaved out by the breaking earth, jutting here and there +like wedges--like the teeth of a world. Alors, on one crag, shaped as an +anvil, I saw what struck me like a blow, and I felt the blood shoot out +of my heart and leave it dry. I was for a minute like a pump with no +water in its throat to work the piston and fetch the stream up. I got +sick and numb. There on that anvil of snow and ice I saw a big white +bear, one such as you shall see within the Arctic Circle, his long +nose fetching out towards that bleeding sun in the sky, his white coat +shining. But that was not the thing--there was another. At the feet of +the bear was a body, and one clawed foot was on that body--of a man. +So clear was the air, the red sun shining on the face as it was turned +towards me, that I wonder I did not at once know whose it was. You +cannot think, m’sieu’, what that was like--no. But all at once I +remembered the Chant of the Scarlet Hunter. I spoke it quick, and the +blood came creeping back in here.” He tapped his chest with his slight +forefinger. + +“What was the chant?” asked the governor, who had scarce stirred +a muscle since the tale began. Pierre made a little gesture of +deprecation. “Ah, it is perhaps a thing of foolishness, as you may +think--” + +“No, no. I have heard and seen in my day,” urged the governor. + +“So? Good. Yes, I remember, you told me years ago, m’sieu’.... + + “The blinding Trail and Night and Cold are man’s: mine is the trail + that finds the Ancient Lodge. Morning and Night they travel with + me; my camp is set by the pines, its fires are burning--are burning. + The lost, they shall sit by my fires, and the fearful ones shall + seek, and the sick shall abide. I am the Hunter, the Son of the + North; I am thy lover where no man may love thee. With me thou + shalt journey, and thine the Safe Tent. + +“As I said, the blood came back to my heart. I turned to my dogs, and +gave them a cut with the whip to see if I dreamed. They sat back and +snarled, and their wild red eyes, the same as mine, kept looking at the +bear and the quiet man on the anvil of ice and snow. Tell me, can you +think of anything like it?--the strange light, the white bear of the +Pole, that has no friends at all except the shooting stars, the great +ice plains, the quick night hurrying on, the silence--such silence as no +man can think! I have seen trouble flying at me in a hundred ways, but +this was different--yes. We come to the foot of the little hill. Still +the bear not stir. As I went up, feeling for my knives and my gun, the +dogs began to snarl with anger, and for one little step I shivered, for +the thing seem not natural. I was about two hundred feet away from the +bear when it turned slow round at me, lifting its foot from the body. +The dogs all at once come huddling about me, and I dropped on my knee to +take aim, but the bear stole away from the man and come moving down past +us at an angle, making for the plain. I could see his deep shining eyes, +and the steam roll from his nose in long puffs. Very slow and heavy, +like as if he see no one and care for no one, he shambled down, and in a +minute was gone behind a boulder. I ran on to the man--” + +The governor was leaning forward, looking intently, and said now: “It’s +like a wild dream--but the north--the north is near to the Strangest of +All!” + +“I knelt down and lifted him up in my arms, all a great bundle of furs +and wool, and I got my hand at last to his wrist. He was alive. It was +Little Babiche! Part of his face was frozen stiff. I rubbed out the +frost with snow, and then I forced some brandy into his mouth, good old +H.B.C. brandy,--and began to call to him: ‘Babiche! Babiche! Come back, +Babiche! The wolf’s at the pot, Babiche!’ That’s the way to call a +hunter to his share of meat. I was afraid, for the sleep of cold is the +sleep of death, and it is hard to call the soul back to this world. But +I called, and kept calling, and got him on his feet, with my arm round +him. I gave him more brandy; and at last I almost shrieked in his ear. +Little by little I saw his face take on the look of waking life. It was +like the dawn creeping over white hills and spreading into day. I said +to myself: What a thing it will be if I can fetch him back! For I never +knew one to come back after the sleep had settled on them. It is too +comfortable--all pain gone, all trouble, the world forgot, just a kind +weight in all the body, as you go sinking down, down to the valley, +where the long hands of old comrades beckon to you, and their soft, +high voices cry, ‘Hello! hello-o!’” Pierre nodded his head towards +the distance, and a musing smile divided his lips on his white teeth. +Presently he folded a cigarette, and went on: + +“I had saved something to the last, as the great test, as the one thing +to open his eyes wide, if they could be opened at all. Alors, there was +no time to lose, for the wolf of Night was driving the red +glow-worm down behind the world, and I knew that when darkness came +altogether--darkness and night--there would be no help for him. Mon +Dieu! how one sleeps in the night of the north, in the beautiful wide +silence!... So, m’sieu’, just when I thought it was the time, I called, +‘Corinne! Corinne!’ Then once again I said, ‘P’tite Corinne! P’tite +Corinne! Come home! come home! P’tite Corinne!’ I could see the fight +in the jail of sleep. But at last he killed his jailer; the doors in his +brain flew open, and his mind came out through his wide eyes. But he was +blind a little and dazed, though it was getting dark quick. I struck +his back hard, and spoke loud from a song that we used to sing on the +Chaudiere--Babiche and all of us, years ago. Mon Dieu! how I remember +those days-- + + “‘Which is the way that the sun goes? + The way that my little one come. + Which is the good path over the hills? + The path that leads to my little one’s home-- + To my little one’s home, m’sieu’, m’sieu’!’ + +“That did it. ‘Corinne, ma p’tite Corinne!’ he said; but he did not look +at me--only stretch out his hands. I caught them, and shook them, and +shook him, and made him take a step forward; then I slap him on the +back again, and said loud: ‘Come, come, Babiche, don’t you know me? +See Babiche, the snow’s no sleeping-bunk, and a polar bear’s no good +friend.’ ‘Corinne!’ he went on, soft and slow. ‘Ma p’tite Corinne!’ +He smiled to himself; and I said, ‘Where’ve you been, Babiche? Lucky +I found you, or you’d have been sleeping till the Great Mass.’ Then he +looked at me straight in the eyes, and something wild shot out of his. +His hand stretched over and caught me by the shoulder, perhaps to steady +himself, perhaps because he wanted to feel something human. Then he +looked round slow-all round the plain, as if to find something. At that +moment a little of the sun crept back, and looked up over the wall of +ice, making a glow of yellow and red for a moment; and never, north or +south, have I seen such beauty--so delicate, so awful. It was like a +world that its Maker had built in a fit of joy, and then got tired of, +and broke in pieces, and blew out all its fires, and left--ah +yes--like that! And out in the distance I--I only saw a bear travelling +eastwards.” + +The governor said slowly: + + And I took My staff Beauty, and cut it asunder, that I might break + My covenant which I had made with all the people. + +“Yes--like that.” Pierre continued: “Babiche turned to me with a little +laugh, which was a sob too. ‘Where is it, Pierre?’ said he. I knew he +meant the bear. ‘Gone to look for another man,’ I said, with a gay look, +for I saw that he was troubled. ‘Come,’ said he at once. As we went, he +saw my dogs. He stopped short and shook a little, and tears came into +his eyes. ‘What is it, Babiche?’ said I. He looked back towards the +south. ‘My dogs--Brandy-wine, Come-along, ‘Poleon, and the rest--died +one night all of an hour. One by one they crawl over to where I lay in +my fur bag, and die there, huddling by me--and such cries--such cries! +There was poison or something in the frozen fish I’d given them. I loved +them every one; and then there was the mails, the year’s mails--how +should they be brought on? That was a bad thought, for I had never +missed--never in ten years. There was one bunch of letters which the +governor said to me was worth more than all the rest of the mails put +together, and I was to bring it to Fort St. Saviour, or not show my face +to him again. I leave the dogs there in the snow, and come on with the +sled, carrying all the mails. Ah, the blessed saints, how heavy the sled +got, and how lonely it was! Nothing to speak to--no one, no thing, +day after day. At last I go to cry to the dogs, “Come-along! ‘Poleon! +Brandy-wine!”--like that! I think I see them there, but they never bark +and they never snarl, and they never spring to the snap of the whip.... +I was alone. Oh, my head! my head! If there was only something alive to +look at, besides the wide white plain, and the bare hills of ice, and +the sun-dogs in the sky! Now I was wild, next hour I was like a child, +then I gnash my teeth like a wolf at the sun, and at last I got on my +knees. The tears froze my eyelids shut, but I kept saying, “Ah, my great +Friend, my Jesu, just something, something with the breath of life! +Leave me not all alone!” and I got sleepier all the time. + +“‘I was sinking, sinking, so quiet and easy, when all at once I felt +something beside me; I could hear it breathing, but I could not open my +eyes at first, for, as I say, the lashes were froze. Something touch me, +smell me, and a nose was push against my chest. I put out my hand ver’ +soft and touch it. I had no fear, I was so glad I could have hug it, but +I did not--I drew back my hand quiet and rub my eyes. In a little I can +see. There stand the thing--a polar bear--not ten feet away, its red +eyes shining. On my knees I spoke to it, talk to it, as I would to a +man. It was like a great wild dog, fierce, yet kind, and I fed it with +the fish which had been for Brandy-wine and the rest--but not to kill +it! and it did not die. That night I lie down in my bag--no, I was not +afraid! The bear lie beside me, between me and the sled. Ah, it was +warm! Day after day we travel together, and camp together at night--ah, +sweet Sainte Anne, how good it was, myself and the wild beast such +friends, alone in the north! But to-day--a little while ago--something +went wrong with me, and I got sick in the head, a swimming like a tide +wash in and out. I fall down-asleep. When I wake I find you here beside +me--that is all. The bear must have drag me here.’” + +Pierre stuck a splinter into the fire to light another cigarette, and +paused as if expecting the governor to speak, but no word coming, he +continued: “I had my arm around him while we talked and come slowly down +the hill. Soon he stopped and said, ‘This is the place.’ It was a +cave of ice, and we went in. Nothing was there to see except the sled. +Babiche stopped short. It come to him now that his good comrade was +gone. He turned, and looked out, and called, but there was only the +empty night, the ice, and the stars. Then he come back, sat down on the +sled, and the tears fall.... I lit my spirit-lamp, boiled coffee, got +pemmican from my bag, and I tried to make him eat. No. He would only +drink the coffee. At last he said to me, ‘What day is this, Pierre?’ ‘It +is the day of the Great Birth, Babiche,’ I said. He made the sign of the +cross, and was quiet, so quiet! but he smile to himself, and kept saying +in a whisper: ‘Ma p’tite Corinne! Ma p’tite Corinne!’ The next day we +come on safe, and in a week I was back at Fort St. Saviour with Babiche +and all the mails, and that most wonderful letter of the governor’s.” + +“The letter was to tell a factor that his sick child in the hospital at +Quebec was well,” the governor responded quietly. “Who was ‘Ma p’tite +Corinne,’ Pierre?” + +“His wife--in heaven; and his child--on the Chaudiere, m’sieu’. The +child came and the mother went on the same day of the Great Birth. He +has a soft heart--that Babiche!” + +“And the white bear--so strange a thing!” + +“M’sieu’, who can tell? The world is young up here. When it was all +young, man and beast were good comrades, maybe.” + +“Ah, maybe. What shall be done with Little Babiche, Pierre?” + +“He will never be the same again on the old trail, m’sieu’!” + +There was silence for a long time, but at last the governor said, +musing, almost tenderly, for he never had a child: “Ma p’tite +Corinne!--Little Babiche shall live near his child, Pierre. I will see +to that.” + +Pierre said no word, but got up, took off his hat to the governor, and +sat down again. + + + + +AT POINT O’ BUGLES + +“John York, John York, where art thou gone, John York?” + +“What’s that, Pierre?” said Sir Duke Lawless, starting to his feet and +peering round. + +“Hush!” was Pierre’s reply. “Wait for the rest.... There!” + +“King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy +bugles.” + +Sir Duke was about to speak, but Pierre lifted a hand in warning, and +then through the still night there came the long cry of a bugle, rising, +falling, strangely clear, echoing and echoing again, and dying away. +A moment, and the call was repeated, with the same effect, and again a +third time; then all was still, save for the flight of birds roused from +the desire of night, and the long breath of some animal in the woods +sinking back to sleep. + +Their camp was pitched on the south shore of Hudson’s Bay, many leagues +to the west of Rupert House, not far from the Moose River. Looking north +was the wide expanse of the bay, dotted with sterile islands here and +there; to the east were the barren steppes of Labrador, and all round +them the calm, incisive air of a late September, when winter begins to +shake out his frosty curtains and hang them on the cornice of the north, +despite the high protests of the sun. The two adventurers had come +together after years of separation, and Sir Duke had urged Pierre to +fare away with him to Hudson’s Bay, which he had never seen, although he +had shares in the great Company, left him by his uncle the admiral. + +They were camped in a hollow, to the right a clump of hardy trees, with +no great deal of foliage, but some stoutness; to the left a long finger +of land running out into the water like a wedge, the most eastern +point of the western shore of Hudson’s Bay. It was high and bold, and, +somehow, had a fine dignity and beauty. From it a path led away north to +a great log-fort called King’s House. + +Lawless saw Pierre half rise and turn his head, listening. Presently he, +too, heard the sound-the soft crash of crisp grass under the feet. He +raised himself to a sitting posture and waited. + +Presently a tall figure came out of the dusk into the light of their +fire, and a long arm waved a greeting at them. Both Lawless and Pierre +rose to their feet. The stranger was dressed in buckskin, he carried a +rifle, and around his shoulder was a strong yellow cord, from which hung +a bugle. + +“How!” he said, with a nod, and drew near the fire, stretching out his +hands to the blaze. + +“How!” said Lawless and Pierre. + +After a moment Lawless drew from his blanket a flask of brandy, and +without a word handed it over the fire. The fingers of the two men +met in the flicker of flames, a sort of bond by fire, and the stranger +raised the flask. + +“Chin-chin,” he said, and drank, breathing a long sigh of satisfaction +afterwards as he handed it back; but it was Pierre that took it, and +again fingers touched in the bond of fire. Pierre passed the flask to +Lawless, who lifted it. + +“Chin-chin,” he said, drank, and gave the flask to Pierre again, who did +as did the others, and said “Chin-chin” also. + +By that salutation of the east, given in the far north, Lawless knew +that he had met one who had lighted fires where men are many and close +to the mile as holes in a sieve. + +They all sat down, and tobacco went round, the stranger offering his, +while the two others, with true hospitality, accepted. + +“We heard you over there--it was you?” said Lawless, nodding towards +Point o’ Bugles, and glancing at the bugle the other carried. + +“Yes, it was I,” was the reply. “Someone always does it twice a year: on +the 25th September and the 25th March. I’ve done it now without a break +for ten years, until it has got to be a sort of religion with me, and +the whole thing’s as real as if King George and John York were talking. +As I tramp to the point or swing away back, in summer barefooted, in +winter on my snowshoes, to myself I seem to be John York on the trail of +the king’s bugles. I’ve thought so much about the whole thing, I’ve +read so many of John York’s letters--and how many times one of the +King’s!--that now I scarcely know which is the bare story, and which the +bit’s I’ve dreamed as I’ve tramped over the plains or sat in the quiet +at King’s House, spelling out little by little the man’s life, from the +cues I found in his journal, in the Company’s papers, and in that one +letter of the King’s.” + +Pierre’s eyes were now more keen than those of Lawless: for years he had +known vaguely of this legend of Point o’ Bugles. + +“You know it all,” he said--“begin at the beginning: how and when you +first heard, how you got the real story, and never mind which is taken +from the papers and which from your own mind--if it all fits in it is +all true, for the lie never fits in right with the square truth. If you +have the footprints and the handprints you can tell the whole man; +if you have the horns of a deer you know it as if you had killed it, +skinned it, and potted it.” + +The stranger stretched himself before the fire, nodding at his hosts as +he did so, and then began: + +“Well, a word about myself first,” he said, “so you’ll know just where +you are. I was full up of life in London town and India, and that’s a +fact. I’d plenty of friends and little money, and my will wasn’t equal +to the task of keeping out of the hands of the Jews. I didn’t know what +to do, but I had to go somewhere, that was clear. Where? An accident +decided it. I came across an old journal of my great-grandfather, John +York,--my name’s Dick Adderley,--and just as if a chain had been put +round my leg and I’d been jerked over by the tipping of the world, I +had to come to Hudson’s Bay. John York’s journal was a thing to sit +up nights to read. It came back to England after he’d had his fill of +Hudson’s Bay and the earth beneath, and had gone, as he himself said on +the last page of the journal, to follow the king’s buglers in ‘the land +that is far off.’ God and the devil were strong in old John York. I +didn’t lose much time after I’d read the journal. I went to Hudson’s Bay +house in London, got a place in the Company, by the help of the governor +himself, and came out. I’ve learned the rest of the history of old +John York--the part that never got to England; for here at King’s House +there’s a holy tradition that the real John York belongs to it and to it +alone.” + +Adderley laughed a little. “King’s House guards John York’s memory, and +it’s as fresh and real here now as though he’d died yesterday; though +it’s forgotten in England, and by most who bear his name, and the +present Prince of Wales maybe never heard of the roan who was a close +friend of the Prince Regent, the First Gentleman of Europe.” + +“That sounds sweet gossip,” said Lawless, with a smile; “we’re waiting.” + +Adderley continued: “John York was an honest man, of wholesome sport, +jovial, and never shirking with the wine, commendable in his appetite, +of rollicking soul and proud temper, and a gay dog altogether--gay, but +to be trusted, too, for he had a royal heart. In the coltish days of the +Prince Regent he was a boon comrade, but never did he stoop to flattery, +nor would he hedge when truth should be spoken, as ofttimes it was +needed with the royal blade, for at times he would forget that a prince +was yet a man, topped with the accident of a crown. Never prince had +truer friend, and so in his best hours he thought, himself, and if he +ever was just and showed his better part, it was to the bold country +gentleman who never minced praise or blame, but said his say and devil +take the end of it. In truth, the Prince was wilful, and once he did a +thing which might have given a twist to the fate of England. Hot for the +love of women, and with some dash of real romance in him too, else even +as a prince he might have had shallower love and service,--he called +John York one day and said: + +“‘To-night at seven, Squire John, you’ll stand with me while I put +the seal on the Gates of Eden;’ and, when the other did not guess his +import, added: ‘Sir Mark Selby is your neighbour--his daughter’s for +my arms to-night. You know her, handsome Sally Selby--she’s for your +prince, for good or ill.’ + +“John York did not understand at first, for he could not think the +Prince had anything in mind but some hot escapade of love. When Mistress +Selby’s name was mentioned his heart stood still, for she had been +his choice, the dear apple of his eye, since she had bloomed towards +womanhood. He had set all his hopes upon her, tarrying till she should +have seen some little life before he asked her for his wife. He had +her father’s Godspeed to his wooing, for he was a man whom all men knew +honest and generous as the sun, and only choleric with the mean thing. +She, also, had given him good cause to think that he should one day take +her to his home, a loved and honoured wife. His impulse, when her name +passed the Prince’s lips, was to draw his sword, for he would have +called an emperor to account; but presently he saw the real meaning of +the speech: that the Prince would marry her that night.” + +Here the story-teller paused again, and Pierre said softly, inquiringly: + +“You began to speak in your own way, and you’ve come to another +way--like going from an almanac to the Mass.” + +The other smiled. “That’s so. I’ve heard it told by old Shearton at +King’s House, who speaks as if he’d stepped out of Shakespeare, and +somehow I seem to hear him talking, and I tell it as he told it last +year to the governor of the Company. Besides, I’ve listened these seven +years to his style.” + +“It’s a strange beginning--unwritten history of England,” said Sir Duke +musingly. + +“You shall hear stranger things yet,” answered Adderley. “John York +could hardly believe it at first, for the thought of such a thing never +had place in his mind. Besides, the Prince knew how he had looked +upon the lady, and he could not have thought his comrade would come in +between him and his happiness. Perhaps it was the difficulty, adding +spice to the affair, that sent the Prince to the appeal of private +marriage to win the lady, and John York always held that he loved her +truly then, the first and only real affection of his life. The lady--who +can tell what won her over from the honest gentleman to the faithless +prince? That soul of vanity which wraps about the real soul of every +woman fell down at last before the highest office in the land, and the +gifted bearer of the office. But the noble spirit in her brought him +to offer marriage, when he might otherwise have offered, say, a barony. +There is a record of that and more in John York’s Memoirs which I will +tell you, for they have settled in my mind like an old song, and I +learned them long ago. I give you John York’s words written by his own +hands: + +“‘I did not think when I beheld thee last, dearest flower of the world’s +garden, that I should see thee bloom in that wide field, rank with the +sorrows of royal favour. How did my foolish eyes fill with tears when +I watched thee, all rose and gold in thy cheeks and hair, the light +falling on thee through the chapel window, putting thy pure palm into my +prince’s, swearing thy life away, selling the very blossoms of earth’s +orchards for the brier beauty of a hidden vineyard! I saw the flying +glories of thy cheeks, the halcyon weather of thy smile, the delicate +lifting of thy bosom, the dear gaiety of thy step, and, at that moment, +I mourned for thy sake that thou wert not the dullest wench in the land, +for then thou hadst been spared thy miseries, thou hadst been saved the +torture-boot of a lost love and a disacknowledged wifedom. Yet I could +not hide from me that thou wert happy at that great moment, when he +swore to love and cherish thee, till death you parted. + +“Ah, George, my prince, my king, how wickedly thou didst break thy vows +with both of us who loved thee well, through good and ill report--for +they spake evil of thee, George; ay, the meanest of thy subjects spake +lightly of their king--when with that sweet soul secretly hid away in +the farthest corner of thy kingdom, thou soughtst divorce from thy later +Caroline, whom thou, unfaithful, didst charge with infidelity. When, at +last, thou didst turn again to the partner of thy youth, thy true wife +in the eyes of God, it was too late. Thou didst promise me that thou +wouldst never take another wife, never put our dear heart away, though +she could not--after our miserable laws--bear thee princes. Thou didst +break thy promise, yet she forgave thee, and I forgave thee, for well we +knew that thou wouldst pay a heavy reckoning, and that in the hour when +thou shouldst cry to us we might not come to thee; that in the days when +age and sorrow and vast troubles should oppress thee, thou wouldst long +for the true hearts who loved thee for thyself and not for aught thou +wudst give, or aught that thou wert, save as a man. + +“‘When thou didst proclaim thy purpose to take Caroline to wife, I +pleaded with thee, I was wroth with thee. Thy one plea was succession. +Succession! Succession! What were a hundred dynasties beside that +precious life, eaten by shame and sorrow? It were easy for others, not +thy children, to come after thee, to rule as well as thee, as must even +now be the case, for thou hast no lawful child save that one in the +loneliest corner of thy English vineyard--alack! alack! I warned thee +George, I pleaded, and thou didst drive me out with words ill-suited to +thy friend who loved thee. + +“‘I did not fear thee, I would have forced thee to thy knees or made +thee fight me, had not some good spirit cried to my heart that thou wert +her husband, and that we both had loved thee. I dared not listen to +the brutal thing thou hintedst at--that now I might fatten where I had +hungered. Thou hadst to answer for the baseness of that thought to the +King of kings, when thou wentest forth alone, no subject, courtier, +friend, wife, or child to do thee service, journeying--not en prince, +George; no, not en prince! but as a naked soul to God. + +“‘Thou saidst to me: “Get thee gone, John York, where I shall no more +see thee.” And when I returned, “Wouldst thou have me leave thy country, +sir?” thou answeredst: “Blow thy quarrelsome soul to the stars where +my farthest bugle cries.” Then I said: “I go, sir, till thou callest +me again--and after; but not till thou hast honoured the child of thy +honest wedlock; till thou hast secured thy wife to the end of her life +against all manner of trouble save the shame of thy disloyalty.” There +was no more for me to do, for my deep love itself forbade my staying +longer within reach of the noble deserted soul. And so I saw +the chastened glory of her face no more, nor evermore beheld her +perfectness.’” + +Adderley paused once more, and, after refilling his pipe in silence, +continued: + +“That was the heart of the thing. His soul sickened of the rank world, +as he called it, and he came out to the Hudson’s Bay country, leaving +his estates in care of his nephew, but taking many stores and great +chests of clothes and a shipload of furniture, instruments of music, +more than a thousand books, some good pictures, and great stores of +wine. Here he came and stayed, an officer of the Company, building +King’s House, and filling it with all the fine things he had brought +with him, making in this far north a little palace in the wilderness. +Here he lived, his great heart growing greater in this wide sinewy +world, King’s House a place of pilgrimage for all the Company’s men in +the north; a noble gentleman in a sweet exile, loving what he could no +more, what he did no more, see. + +“Twice a year he went to that point yonder and blew this bugle, no man +knew why or wherefore, year in, year out, till 1817. Then there came +a letter to him with great seals, which began: ‘John York, John York, +where art thou gone, John York?’ There followed a score of sorrowful +sentences, full of petulance, too, for it was as John York foretold, his +prince longed for the ‘true souls’ whom he had cast off. But he called +too late, for the neglected wife died from the shock of her prince’s +longing message to her, and when, by the same mail, John York knew that, +he would not go back to England to the King. But twice every year he +went to yonder point and spoke out the King’s words to him: ‘John York, +John York, where art thou gone, John York?’ and gave the words of his +own letter in reply: ‘King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on +the trail of thy bugles.’ To this he added three calls of the bugle, as +you have heard.” + +Adderley handed the bugle to Lawless, who looked at it with deep +interest and passed it on to Pierre. “When he died,” Adderley continued, +“he left the house, the fittings, and the stores to the officers of +the Company who should be stationed there, with a sum of money yearly, +provided that twice in twelve months the bugle should be blown as you +have heard it, and those words called out.” + +“Why did he do that?” asked Lawless, nodding towards the point. + +“Why do they swing the censers at the Mass?” interjected Pierre. “Man +has signs for memories, and one man seeing another’s sign will remember +his own.” + +“You stay because you like it--at King’s House?” asked Lawless of +Adderley. + +The other stretched himself lazily to the fire and, “I am at home,” he +said. “I have no cares. I had all there was of that other world; I’ve +not had enough of this. You’ll come with me to King’s House to-morrow?” + he added. + +To their quick assent he rejoined: “You’ll never want to leave. You’ll +stay on.” + +To this Lawless replied, shaking his head: “I have a wife and child in +England.” + +But Pierre did not reply. He lifted the bugle, mutely asking a question +of Adderley, who as mutely replied, and then, with it in his hand, left +the other two beside the fire. + +A few minutes later they heard, with three calls of the bugle from the +point afterwards, Pierre’s voice: “John York, John York, where art thou +gone, John York?” + +Then came the reply: + +“King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy +bugles.” + + + + +THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA + +Just at the point where the Peace River first hugs the vast outpost +hills of the Rockies, before it hurries timorously on, through an +unexplored region, to Fort St. John, there stood a hut. It faced the +west, and was built half-way up Clear Mountain. In winter it had snows +above it and below it; in summer it had snow above it and a very fair +stretch of trees and grass, while the river flowed on the same, winter +and summer. It was a lonely country. Travelling north, you would have +come to the Turnagain River; west, to the Frying Pan Mountains; south, +to a goodly land. But from the hut you had no outlook towards the south; +your eye came plump against a hard lofty hill, like a wall between +heaven and earth. It is strange, too, that, when you are in the far +north, you do not look towards the south until the north turns an iron +hand upon you and refuses the hospitality of food and fire; your eyes +are drawn towards the Pole by that charm--deadly and beautiful--for +which men have given up three points of the compass, with their +pleasures and ease, to seek a grave solitude, broken only by the beat +of a musk-ox’s hoofs, the long breath of the caribou, or the wild cry of +the puma. + +Sir Duke Lawless had felt this charm, and had sworn that one day he +would again leave his home in Devon and his house in Pont Street, and, +finding Pierre, Shon M’Gann, and others of his old comrades, together +they would travel into those austere yet pleasant wilds. He kept his +word, found Shon M’Gann, and on an autumn day of a year not so long +ago lounged in this hut on Clear Mountain. They had had three months of +travel and sport, and were filled, but not sated, with the joy of the +hunter. They were very comfortable, for their host, Pourcette, the +French Canadian, had fire and meat in plenty, and, if silent, was +attentive to their comfort--a little, black-bearded, grey-headed man, +with heavy brows over small vigilant eyes, deft with his fingers, and an +excellent sportsman, as could be told from the skins heaped in all the +corners of the large hut. + +The skins were not those of mere foxes or martens or deer, but of +mountain lions and grizzlies. There were besides many soft, tiger-like +skins, which Sir Duke did not recognise. He kept looking at them, and at +last went over and examined one. + +“What’s this, Monsieur Pourcette?” he said, feeling it as it lay on the +top of the pile. + +The little man pushed the log on the fireplace with his moccasined foot +before he replied: “Of a puma, m’sieu’.” + +Sir Duke smoothed it with his hand. “I didn’t know there were pumas +here.” + +“Faith, Sir Duke--” + +Sir Duke Lawless turned on Shon quickly. “You’re forgetting again, Shon. +There’s no ‘Sir Dukes’ between us. What you were to me years ago on +the wally-by-track and the buffalo-trail, you are now, and I’m the same +also: M’Gann and Lawless, and no other.” + +“Well, then, Lawless, it’s true enough as he says it, for I’ve seen more +than wan skin brought in, though I niver clapped eye on the beast alive. +There’s few men go huntin’ them av their own free will, not more than +they do grizzlies; but, bedad, this French gintleman has either the luck +o’ the world, or the gift o’ that man ye tould me of, that slew the +wild boars in anciency. Look at that, now: there’s thirty or forty +puma-skins, and I’d take my oath there isn’t another man in the country +that’s shot half that in his lifetime.” + +Pourcette’s eyes were on the skins, not on the men, and he did not +appear to listen. He sat leaning forward, with a strange look on his +face. Presently he got up, came over, and stroked the skins softly. A +queer chuckling noise came from his throat. + +“It was good sport?” asked Lawless, feeling a new interest in him. + +“The grandest sport--but it is not so easy,” answered the old man. “The +grizzly comes on you bold and strong; you know your danger right away, +and have it out. So. But the puma comes--God, how the puma comes!” He +broke off, his eyes burning bright under his bushy brows and his body +arranging itself into an attitude of expectation and alertness. + +“You have travelled far. The sun goes down. You build a fire and cook +your meat, and then good tea and the tabac. It is ver’ fine. You hear +the loon crying on the water, or the last whistle of the heron up +the pass. The lights in the sky come out and shine through a thin +mist--there is nothing like that mist, it is so fine and soft. Allons. +You are sleepy. You bless the good God. You stretch pine branches, wrap +in your blanket, and lie down to sleep. If it is winter and you have a +friend, you lie close. It is all quiet. As you sleep, something comes. +It slides along the ground on its belly, like a snake. It is a pity +if you have not ears that feel--the whole body as ears. For there is a +swift lunge, a snarl--ah, you should hear it! the thing has you by the +throat, and there is an end!” + +The old man had acted all the scenes: a sidelong glance, a little +gesture, a movement of the body, a quick, harsh breath--without emphatic +excitement, yet with a reality and force that fascinated his two +listeners. When he paused, Shon let go a long breath, and Lawless looked +with keen inquiry at their entertainer. This almost unnatural, yet +quiet, intensity had behind it something besides the mere spirit of +the sportsman. Such exhibitions of feeling generally have an unusual +personal interest to give them point and meaning. + +“Yes, that’s wonderful, Pourcette,” he said; “but that’s when the puma +has things its own way. How is it when these come off?” He stroked the +soft furs under his hand. + +The man laughed, yet without a sound--the inward, stealthy laugh, as +from a knowledge wicked in its very suggestiveness. His eyes ran from +Lawless to Shon, and back again. He put his hand on his mouth, as though +for silence, stole noiselessly over to the wall, took down his gun +quietly, and turned round. Then he spoke softly: + +“To kill the puma, you must watch--always watch. You will see his yellow +eyes sometimes in a tree: you must be ready before he springs. You will +hear his breath at night as you pretend to sleep, and you wait till you +see his foot steal out of the shadow--then you have him. From a mountain +wall you watch in the morning, and, when you see him, you follow, and +follow, and do not rest till you have found him. You must never miss +fire, for he has great strength and a mad tooth. But when you have got +him, he is worth all. You cannot eat the grizzly--he is too thick and +coarse; but the puma--well, you had him from the pot to-night. Was he +not good?” + +Lawless’s brows ran up in surprise. Shon spoke quickly: + +“Heaven above!” he burst out. “Was it puma we had betune the teeth? +And what’s puma but an almighty cat? Sure, though, it wint as tinder as +pullets, for all that--but I wish you hadn’t tould us.” + +The old man stood leaning on his gun, his chin on his hands, as they +covered the muzzle, his eyes fixed on something in his memory, the +vision of incidents he had lived or seen. + +Lawless went over to the fire and relit his pipe. Shon followed him. +They both watched Pourcette. “D’ye think he’s mad?” asked Shon in a +whisper. Lawless shook his head: “Mad? No. But there’s more in this +puma-hunting than appears. How long has he lived here, did he say?” + +“Four years; and, durin’ that time, yours and mine are the only white +faces he has seen, except one.” + +“Except one. Well, whose was the one? That might be interesting. Maybe +there’s a story in that.” + +“Faith, Lawless, there’s a story worth the hearin’, I’m thinkin’, +to every white man in this country. For the three years I was in +the mounted police, I could count a story for all the days o’ the +calendar--and not all o’ them would make you happy to hear.” + +Pourcette turned round to them. He seemed to be listening to Shon’s +words. Going to the wall, he hung up the rifle; then he came to the fire +and stood holding out his hands to the blaze. He did not look in the +least mad, but like a man who was dominated by some one thought, more +or less weird. Short and slight, and a little bent, but more from +habit--the habit of listening and watching--than from age, his face +had a stern kind of earnestness and loneliness, and nothing at all of +insanity. + +Presently Lawless went to a corner and from his kit drew forth a flask. +The old man saw, and immediately brought out a wooden cup. There were +two on the shelf, and Shon pointed to the other. Pourcette took no +notice. Shon went over to get it, but Pourcette laid a hand on his arm: +“Not that.” + +“For ornamint!” said Shon, laughing, and then his eyes were arrested by +a suit of buckskin and a cap of beaver, hanging on the wall. He turned +them over, and then suddenly drew back his hand, for he saw in the back +of the jacket a knife-slit. There was blood also on the buckskin. + +“Holy Mary!” he said, and retreated. Lawless had not noticed; he was +pouring out the liquor. He had handed the cup first to Pourcette, who +raised it towards a gun hung above the fireplace, and said something +under his breath. + +“A dramatic little fellow,” thought Lawless; “the spirit of his +forefathers--a good deal of heart, a little of the poseur.” + +Then hearing Shon’s exclamation, he turned. + +“It’s an ugly sight,” said Shon, pointing to the jacket. They both +looked at Pourcette, expecting him to speak. The old man reached to the +coat, and, turning it so that the cut and the blood were hid, ran his +hand down it caressingly. “Ah, poor Jo! poor Jo Gordineer!” he said; +then he came over once more to the fire, sat down, and held out his +hands to the fire, shaking his head. + +“For God’s sake, Lawless, give me a drink!” said Shon. Their eyes met, +and there was the same look in the faces of both. When Shon had drunk, +he said: “So, that’s what’s come to our old friend, Jo: dead--killed or +murdered--” + +“Don’t speak so loud,” said Lawless. “Let us get the story from him +first.” + +Years before, when Shon M’Gann and Pierre and Lawless had sojourned in +the Pipi Valley, Jo Gordineer had been with them, as stupid and true a +man as ever drew in his buckle in a hungry land, or let it out to munch +corn and oil. When Lawless returned to find Shon and others of his +companions, he had asked for Gordineer. But not Shon nor anyone else +could tell aught of him; he had wandered north to outlying goldfields, +and then had disappeared completely. But there, as it would seem, his +coat and cap hung, and his rifle, dust-covered, kept guard over the +fire. + +Shon went over to the coat, did as Pourcette had done, and said: “Is it +gone y’are, Jo, wid your slow tongue and your big heart? Wan by wan the +lads are off.” + +Pourcette, without any warning, began speaking, but in a very quiet tone +at first, as if unconscious of the others: + +“Poor Jo Gordineer! Yes, he is gone. He was my friend--so tall, and such +a hunter! We were at the Ding Dong goldfields together. When luck went +bad, I said to him: ‘Come, we will go where there is plenty of wild +meat, and a summer more beautiful than in the south.’ I did not want to +part from him, for once, when some miner stole my claim, and I fought, +he stood by me. But in some things he was a little child. That was from +his big heart. Well, he would go, he said; and we came away.” + +He suddenly became silent; and shook his head, and spoke under his +breath. + +“Yes,” said Lawless quietly, “you went away. What then?” + +He looked up quickly, as though just aware of their presence, and +continued: + +“Well, the other followed, as I said, and--” + +“No, Pourcette,” interposed Lawless, “you didn’t say. Who was the other +that followed?” + +The old man looked at him gravely, and a little severely, and continued: + +“As I said, Gawdor followed--he and an Indian. Gawdor thought we were +going for gold, because I had said I knew a place in the north where +there was gold in a river--I know the place, but that is no matter. We +did not go for gold just then. Gawdor hated Jo Gordineer. There was +a half-breed girl. She was fine to look at. She would have gone to +Gordineer if he had beckoned, any time; but he waited--he was very slow, +except with his finger on a gun; he waited too long. + +“Gawdor was mad for the girl. He knew why her feet came slow to the +door when he knocked. He would have quarrelled with Jo, if he had dared; +Gordineer was too quick a shot. He would have killed him from behind; +but it was known in the camp that he was no friend of Gordineer, and it +was not safe.” + +Again Pourcette was silent. Lawless put on his knee a new pipe, filled +with tobacco. The little man took it, lighted it, and smoked on in +silence for a time undisturbed. Shon broke the silence, by a whisper to +Lawless: + +“Jo was a quiet man, as patient as a priest; but when his blood came up, +there was trouble in the land. Do you remimber whin--” + +Lawless interrupted him and motioned towards Pourcette. The old man, +after a few puffs, held the pipe on his knee, disregarding it. Lawless +silently offered him some more whisky, but he shook his head. Presently, +he again took up the thread: + +“Bien, we travelled slow up through the smoky river country, and beyond +into a wild land. We had bully sport as we went. Sometimes I heard +shots far away behind us; but Gordineer said it was my guess, for we saw +nobody. But I had a feeling. Never mind. At last we come to the Peace +River. It was in the early autumn like this, when the land is full of +comfort. What is there like it? Nothing. The mountains have colours like +a girl’s eyes; the smell of the trees is sweet like a child’s breath, +and the grass feels for the foot and lifts it with a little soft spring. +We said we could live here for ever. We built this house high up, as you +see, first, because it is good to live high--it puts life in the blood; +and, as Gordineer said, it is noble to look far over the world, every +time your house-door is open, or the parchment is down from the window. +We killed wapiti and caribou without number, and cached them for +our food. We caught fish in the river, and made tea out of the brown +berry--it is very good. We had flour, a little, which we had brought +with us, and I went to Fort St. John and got more. Since then, down in +the valley, I have wheat every summer; for the Chinook winds blow across +the mountains and soften the bitter cold. + +“Well, for that journey to Fort St. John. When I got back I found Gawdor +with Gordineer. He said he had come north to hunt. His Indian had left, +and he had lost his way. Gordineer believed him. He never lied himself. +I said nothing, but watched. After a time he asked where the gold-field +was. I told him, and he started away--it was about fifty miles to the +north. He went, and on his way back he come here. He say he could not +find the place, and was going south. I know he lied. At this time I saw +that Gordineer was changed. He was slow in the head, and so, when he +began thinking up here, it made him lonely. It is always in a fine land +like this, where game is plenty, and the heart dances for joy in your +throat, and you sit by the fire--that you think of some woman who would +be glad to draw in and tie the strings of the tent-curtain, or fasten +the latch of the door upon you two alone.” + +Perhaps some memory stirred within the old man, other than that of his +dead comrade, for he sighed, muffled his mouth in his beard, and then +smiled in a distant way at the fire. The pure truth of what he said came +home to Shon M’Gann and Sir Duke Lawless; for both, in days gone by, +had sat at camp-fires in silent plains, and thought upon women from whom +they believed they were parted for ever, yet who were only kept from +them for a time, to give them happier days. They were thinking of these +two women now. They scarcely knew how long they sat there thinking. Time +passes swiftly when thoughts are cheerful, or are only tinged with the +soft melancholy of a brief separation. Memory is man’s greatest friend +and worst enemy. + +At last the old man continued: “I saw the thing grew on him. He was not +sulky, but he stare much in the fire at night. In the daytime he was +differen’. A hunter thinks only of his sport. Gawdor watched him. +Gordineer’s hand was steady; his nerve was all right. I have seen him +stand still till a grizzly come within twice the length of his gun. Then +he would twist his mouth, and fire into the mortal spot. Once we were +out in the Wide Wing pass. We had never had such a day. Gordineer make +grand shots, better than my own; and men have said I can shoot like +the devil--ha! ha!” He chuckled to himself noiselessly, and said in a +whisper “Twenty grizzlies, and fifty pumas!” + +Then he rubbed his hands softly on his knees, and spoke aloud again: +“Ici, I was proud of him. We were standing together on a ledge of rock. +Gawdor was not far away. Gawdor was a poor hunter, and I knew he was +wild at Gordineer’s great luck.... A splendid bull-wapiti come out on +a rock across the gully. It was a long shot. I did not think Gordineer +could make it; I was not sure that I could--the wind was blowing and the +range was long. But he draw up his gun like lightning, and fire all at +once. The bull dropped clean over the cliff, and tumbled dead upon the +rocks below. It was fine. But, then, Gordineer slung his gun under his +arm, and say: ‘That is enough. I am going to the hut.’ + +“He went away. That night he did not talk. The next morning, when I say, +‘We will be off again to the pass,’ he shake his head. He would not go. +He would shoot no more, he said. I understood: it was the girl. He was +wide awake at last. Gawdor understanded also. He know that Gordineer +would go to the south--to her. + +“I was sorry; but it was no use. Gawdor went with me to the pass. When +we come back, Jo was gone. On a bit of birch-bark he had put where he +was going, and the way he would take. He said he would come back to +me--ah, the brave comrade! Gawdor say nothing, but his looks were black. +I had a feeling. I sat up all night, smoking. I was not afraid, but I +know Gawdor had found the valley of gold, and he might put a knife in +me, because to know of such a thing alone is fine. Just at dawn, he got +up and go out. He did not come back. + +“I waited, and at last went to the pass. In the afternoon, just as I +was rounding the corner of a cliff, there was a shot--then another. The +first went by my head; the second caught me along the ribs, but not to +great hurt. Still, I fell from the shock, and lost some blood. It was +Gawdor; he thought he had killed me. + +“When I come to myself I bound up the little furrow in the flesh, and +start away. I know that Gawdor would follow Gordineer. I follow him, +knowing the way he must take. I have never forget the next night. I +had to travel hard, and I track him by his fires and other things. When +sunset come, I do not stop. I was in a valley, and I push on. There was +a little moon. At last I saw a light ahead-a camp-fire, I know. I was +weak, and could have dropped; but a dread was on me. + +“I come to the fire. I saw a man lying near it. Just as I saw him, +he was trying to rise. But, as he did so, something sprang out of the +shadow upon him, at his throat. I saw him raise his hand, and strike it +with a knife. The thing let go, and then I fire--but only scratched, I +think. It was a puma. It sprang away again, into the darkness. I ran to +the man, and raised him. It was my friend. He looked up at me and shake +his head. He was torn at the throat.... But there was something else--a +wound in the back. He was stooping over the fire when he was stabbed, +and he fell. He saw that it was Gawdor. He had been left for dead, as +I was. Nom de Dieu! just when I come and could have save him, the puma +come also. It is the best men who have such luck. I have seen it often. +I used to wonder they did not curse God.” + +He crossed himself and mumbled something. Lawless rose, and walked up +and down the room once or twice, pulling at his beard and frowning. His +eyes were wet. Shon kept blowing into his closed hand and blinking at +the fire. Pourcette got up and took down the gun from the chimney. He +brushed off the dust with his coat-sleeve, and fondled it, shaking his +head at it a little. As he began to speak again, Lawless sat down. + +“Now I know why they do not curse. Something curses for them. Jo give me +a word for her, and say ‘Well, it is all right; but I wish I had killed +the puma.’ There was nothing more.... I followed Gawdor for days. I know +that he would go and get someone, and go back to the gold. I thought at +last I had missed him; but no. I had made up my mind what to do when +I found him. One night, just as the moon was showing over the hills, I +come upon him. I was quiet as a puma. I have a stout cord in my pocket, +and another about my body. Just as he was stooping over the fire, as +Gordineer did, I sprang upon him, clasping him about the neck, and +bringing him to the ground. He could not get me off. I am small, but I +have a grip. Then, too, I had one hand at his throat. It was no use to +struggle. The cord and a knife were in my teeth. It was a great trick, +but his breath was well gone, and I fastened his hands. It was no use +to struggle. I tied his feet and legs. Then I carried him to a tree and +bound him tight. I unfastened his hands again and tied them round the +tree. Then I built a great fire not far away. He begged at first and +cried. But I was hard. He got wild, and at last when I leave him he +cursed! It was like nothing I ever heard. He was a devil... I come back +after I have carry the message to the poor girl--it is a sad thing to +see the first great grief of the young! Gawdor was not there. The pumas +and others had been with him. + +“There was more to do. I wanted to kill that puma which set its teeth +in the throat of my friend. I hunted the woods where it had happened, +beating everywhere, thinking that, perhaps, it was dead. There was not +much blood on the leaves, so I guessed that it had not died. I hunted +from that spot, and killed many--many. I saw that they began to move +north. At last I got back here. From here I have hunted and killed them +slow; but never that one with a wound in the shoulder from Jo’s knife. +Still, I can wait. There is nothing like patience for the hunter and for +the man who would have blood for blood.” + +He paused, and Lawless spoke. “And when you have killed that puma, +Pourcette--if you ever do-what then?” + +Pourcette fondled the gun, then rose and hung it up again before he +replied. + +“Then I will go to Fort St. John, to the girl--she is there with her +father--and sell all the skins to the factor, and give her the money.” + He waved his hand round the room. “There are many skins here, but I have +more cached not far away. Once a year I go to the Fort for flour and +bullets. A dog-team and a bois-brule bring them, and then I am alone as +before. When all that is done I will come back.” + +“And then, Pourcette?” said Shon. + +“Then I will hang that one skin over the chimney where his gun is--and +go out and kill more pumas. What else can one do? When I stop killing I +shall be killed. A million pumas and their skins are not worth the life +of my friend.” + +Lawless looked round the room, at the wooden cup, the gun, the +bloodstained clothes on the wall, and the skins. He got up, came over, +and touched Pourcette on the shoulder. + +“Little man,” he said, “give it up, and come with me. Come to Fort St. +John, sell the skins, give the money to the girl, and then let us travel +to the Barren Grounds together, and from there to the south country +again. You will go mad up here. You have killed enough--Gawdor and many +pumas. If Jo could speak, he would say, Give it up. I knew Jo. He was my +good friend before he was yours--mine and M’Gann’s here--and we searched +for him to travel with us. He would have done so, I think, for we had +sport and trouble of one kind and another together. And he would have +asked you to come also. Well, do so, little man. We haven’t told you our +names. I am Sir Duke Lawless, and this is Shon M’Gann.” + +Pourcette nodded: “I do not know how it come to me, but I was sure +from the first you are his friends. He speak often of you and of two +others--where are they?” + +Lawless replied, and, at the name of Pretty Pierre, Shon hid his +forehead in his hand, in a troubled way. “And you will come with us,” + said Lawless, “away from this loneliness?” + +“It is not lonely,” was the reply. “To hear the thrum of the pigeon, the +whistle of the hawk, the chatter of the black squirrel, and the long cry +of the eagle, is not lonely. Then, there is the river and the pines--all +music; and for what the eye sees, God has been good; and to kill pumas +is my joy.... So, I cannot go. These hills are mine. Few strangers come, +and none stop but me. Still, to-morrow or any day, I will show you the +way to the valley where the gold is. Perhaps riches is there, perhaps +not, you shall find.” + +Lawless saw that it was no use to press the matter. The old man had but +one idea, and nothing could ever change it. Solitude fixes our hearts +immovably on things--call it madness, what you will. In busy life we +have no real or lasting dreams, no ideals. We have to go to the primeval +hills and the wild plains for them. When we leave the hills and the +plains, we lose them again. Shon was, however, for the valley of gold. +He was a poor man, and it would be a joyful thing for him if one day he +could empty ample gold into his wife’s lap. Lawless was not greedy, but +he and good gold were not at variance. + +“See,” said Shon, “the valley’s the thing. We can hunt as we go, and if +there’s gold for the scrapin’, why, there y’are--fill up and come again. +If not, divil the harm done. So here’s thumbs up to go, say I. But I +wish, Lawless, I wish that I’d niver known how Jo wint off, an’ I wish +we were all t’gither agin, as down in the Pipi Valley.” + +“There’s nothing stands in this world, Shon, but the faith of comrades +and the truth of good women. The rest hangs by a hair. I’ll go to the +valley with you. It’s many a day since I washed my luck in a gold-pan.” + +“I will take you there,” said Pourcette, suddenly rising, and, with +shy abrupt motions grasping their hands and immediately letting them go +again. “I will take you to-morrow.” Then he spread skins upon the floor, +put wood upon the fire, and the three were soon asleep. + +The next morning, just as the sun came laboriously over the white peak +of a mountain, and looked down into the great gulch beneath the hut, the +three started. For many hours they crept along the side of the mountain, +then came slowly down upon pine-crested hills, and over to where a small +plain stretched out. It was Pourcette’s little farm. Its position was +such that it caught the sun always, and was protected from the north and +east winds. Tall shafts of Indian corn with their yellow tassels were +still standing, and the stubble of the field where the sickle had been +showed in the distance like a carpet of gold. It seemed strange to +Lawless that this old man beside him should be thus peaceful in his +habits, the most primitive and arcadian of farmers, and yet one +whose trade was blood--whose one purpose in life was destruction and +vengeance. + +They pushed on. Towards the end of the day they came upon a little herd +of caribou, and had excellent sport. Lawless noticed that Pourcette +seemed scarcely to take any aim at all, so swift and decisive was his +handling of the gun. They skinned the deer and cached them, and took up +the journey again. For four days they travelled and hunted alternately. +Pourcette had shot two mountain lions, but they had seen no pumas. + +On the morning of the fifth day they came upon the valley where the gold +was. There was no doubt about it. A beautiful little stream ran through +it, and its bed was sprinkled with gold--a goodly sight to a poor man +like Shon, interesting enough to Lawless. For days, while Lawless and +Pourcette hunted, Shon laboured like a galley-slave, making the little +specks into piles, and now and again crowning a pile with a nugget. The +fever of the hunter had passed from him, and another fever was on him. +The others urged him to come away. The winter would soon be hard on +them; he must go, and he and Lawless would return in the spring. + +Prevailing on him at last, they started back to Clear Mountain. The +first day Shon was abstracted. He carried the gold he had gathered in +a bag wound about his body. It was heavy, and he could not travel fast. +One morning, Pourcette, who had been off in the hills, came to say that +he had sighted a little herd of wapiti. Shon had fallen and sprained his +arm the evening before (gold is heavy to carry), and he did not go with +the others. He stayed and dreamed of his good fortune, and of his home. +In the late afternoon he lay down in the sun beside the camp-fire +and fell asleep from much thinking. Lawless and Pourcette had little +success. The herd had gone before they arrived. They beat the hills, +and turned back to camp at last, without fret, like good sportsmen. At a +point they separated, to come down upon the camp at different angles, in +the hope of still getting a shot. The camp lay exposed upon a platform +of the mountain. + +Lawless came out upon a ledge of rock opposite the camp, a gulch lying +between. He looked across. He was in the shadow, the other wall of the +gulch was in the sun. The air was incomparably clear and fresh, with an +autumnal freshness. Everything stood out distinct and sharply outlined, +nothing flat or blurred. He saw the camp, and the fire, with the smoke +quivering up in a diffusing blue column, Shon lying beside it. He leaned +upon his rifle musingly. The shadows of the pines were blue and +cold, but the tops of them were burnished with the cordial sun, and +a glacier-field, somehow, took on a rose and violet light, reflected, +maybe, from the soft-complexioned sky. He drew in a long breath of +delight, and widened his line of vision. + +Suddenly, something he saw made him lurch backward. At an angle in +almost equal distance from him and Shon, upon a small peninsula of rock, +a strange thing was happening. Old Pourcette was kneeling, engaged with +his moccasin. Behind him was the sun, against which he was abruptly +defined, looking larger than usual. Clear space and air soft with colour +were about him. Across this space, on a little sloping plateau near him, +there crept an animal. It seemed to Lawless that he could see the lithe +stealthiness of its muscles and the ripple of its skin. But that was +imagination, because he was too far away. He cried out, and swung his +gun shoulderwards in desperation. But, at the moment, Pourcette turned +sharply round, saw his danger, caught his gun, and fired as the puma +sprang. There had been no chance for aim, and the beast was only +wounded. It dropped upon the man. He let the gun fall; it rolled +and fell over the cliff. Then came a scene, wicked in its peril to +Pourcette, for whom no aid could come, though two men stood watching the +great fight--Shon M’Gann, awake now, and Lawless--with their guns silent +in their hands. They dare not fire, for fear of injuring the man, and +they could not reach him in time to be of help. + +There against the weird solitary sky the man and the puma fought. When +the animal dropped on him, Pourcette caught it by the throat with both +hands, and held back its fangs; but its claws were furrowing the flesh +of his breast and legs. His long arms were of immense strength, and +though the pain of his torn flesh was great he struggled grandly with +the beast, and bore it away, from his body. As he did so he slightly +changed the position of one hand. It came upon a welt-a scar. When he +felt that, new courage and strength seemed given him. He gave a low +growl like an animal, and then, letting go one hand, caught at the knife +in his belt. As he did so the puma sprang away from him, and crouched +upon the rock, making ready for another leap. Lawless and Shon could see +its tail curving and beating. But now, to their astonishment, the man +was the aggressor. He was filled with a fury which knows nothing of +fear. The welt his fingers had felt burned them. + +He came slowly upon the puma. Lawless could see the hard glitter of his +knife. The puma’s teeth sawed together, its claws picked at the rocks, +its body curved for a spring. The man sprang first, and ran the knife +in; but not into a mortal corner. Once more they locked. The man’s +fingers were again at the puma’s throat, and they swayed together, the +claws of the beast making surface havoc. But now as they stood up, to +the eyes of the fearful watchers inextricably mixed, the man lunged +again with his knife, and this time straight into the heart of the +murderer. The puma loosened, quivered, fell back dead. The man rose to +his feet with a cry, and his hands stretched above his head, as it were +in a kind of ecstasy. Shon forgot his gold and ran; Lawless hurried +also. + +When the two men got to the spot they found Pourcette binding up his +wounds. He came to his feet, heedless of his hurts, and grasped their +hands. “Come, come, my friends, and see,” he cried. + +He pulled forward the loose skin on the puma’s breast and showed them +the scar of a knife-wound above the one his own knife had made. + +“I’ve got the other murderer,” he said; “Gordineer’s knife went in here. +Sacre, but it is good!” + +Pourcette’s flesh needed little medicine; he did not feel his pain and +stiffness. When they reached Clear Mountain, bringing with them the skin +which was to hang above the fireplace, Pourcette prepared to go to Fort +St. John, as he had said he would, to sell all the skins and give the +proceeds to the girl. + +“When that’s done,” said Lawless, “you will have no reason for staying +here. If you will come with us after, we will go to the Fort with you. +We three will then come back in the spring to the valley of gold for +sport and riches.” + +He spoke lightly, yet seriously too. The old man shook his head. “I have +thought,” he said. “I cannot go to the south. I am a hunter now, nothing +more. I have been long alone; I do not wish for change. I shall remain +at Clear Mountain when these skins have gone to Fort St. John, and if +you come to me in the spring or at any time, my door will open to you, +and I will share all with you. Gordineer was a good man. You are good +men. I’ll remember you, but I can’t go with you--no. + +“Some day you would leave me to go to the women who wait for you, and +then I should be alone again. I will not change--vraiment!” + +On the morning they left, he took Jo Gordineer’s cup from the shelf, +and from a hidden place brought out a flask half filled with liquor. He +poured out a little in the cup gravely, and handed it to Lawless, but +Lawless gave it back to him. + +“You must drink from it,” he said, “not me.” + +He held out the cup of his own flask. When each of the three had a +share, the old man raised his long arm solemnly, and said in a tone so +gentle that the others hardly recognised his voice: “To a lost comrade!” + They drank in silence. + +“A little gentleman!” said Lawless, under his breath. When they were +ready to start, Lawless said to him at the last: “What will you do here, +comrade, as the days go on?” + +“There are pumas in the mountains,” he replied. They parted from him +upon the ledge where the great fight had occurred, and travelled into +the east. Turning many times, they saw him still standing there. At a +point where they must lose sight of him, they looked for the last time. +He was alone with his solitary hills, leaning on his rifle. They fired +two shots into the air. They saw him raise his rifle, and two faint +reports came in reply. He became again immovable: as much a part of +those hills as the shining glacier; never to leave them. + +In silence the two rounded the cliff, and saw him no more. + + + + +THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS + +“Swell, you see,” said Jacques Parfaite, as he gave Whiskey Wine, the +leading dog, a cut with the whip and twisted his patois to the uses of +narrative, “he has been alone there at the old Fort for a long time. +I remember when I first see him. It was in the summer. The world smell +sweet if you looked this way or that. If you drew in your breath quick +from the top of a hill you felt a great man. Ridley, the chief trader, +and myself have come to the Fort on our way to the Mackenzie River. In +the yard of the Fort the grass have grown tall, and sprung in the cracks +under the doors and windows; the Fort have not been use for a long time. +Once there was plenty of buffalo near, and the caribou sometimes; but +they were all gone--only a few. The Indians never went that way, only +when the seasons were the best. The Company have close the Post; it did +not pay. Still, it was pleasant after a long tramp to come to even an +empty fort. We know dam’ well there is food buried in the yard or under +the floor, and it would be droll to open the place for a day--Lost Man’s +Tavern, we called it. Well--” + +“Well, what?” said Sir Duke Lawless, who had travelled up to the Barren +Grounds for the sake of adventure and game; and, with his old friend, +Shon M’Gann, had trusted himself to the excellent care of Jacques +Parfaite, the half-breed. + +Jacques cocked his head on one side and shook it wisely and +mysteriously. “Tres bien, we trailed through the long grass, pried +open the shutters and door, and went in. It is cool in the north of +an evening, as you know. We build a fire, and soon there is very fine +times. Ridley pried up the floor, and we found good things. Holy! but it +was a feast. We had a little rum also. As we talk and a great laugh swim +round, there come a noise behind us like shuffling feet. We got to our +legs quick. Mon Dieu, a strange sight! A man stand looking at us +with something in his face that make my fingers cold all at once--a +look--well you would think it was carved in stone--it never change. +Once I was at Fort Garry; the Church of St. Mary is there. They have a +picture in it of the great scoundrel Judas as he went to hang himself. +Judas was a fool--what was thirty dollars!--you give me hunder’ to take +you to the Barren Grounds. Pah!” + +The half-breed chuckled, shook his head sagely, swore half-way through +his vocabulary at Whiskey Wine, gratefully received a pipe of tobacco +from Shon M’Gann, and continued: “He come in on us slow and still, and +push out long thin hands, the fingers bent like claws, towards the pot. +He was starving. Yes, it was so; but I nearly laugh. It was spring--a +man is a fool to starve in the spring. But he was differen’. There was +a cause. The factor give him soup from the pot and a little rum. He was +mad for meat, but that would have kill him--yes. He did not look at you +like a man. + +“When you are starving, you are an animal. But there was something more +with this.--He made the flesh creep, he was so thin, and strange, and +sulky--eh, is that a word when the face looks dark and never smiles? So. +He would not talk. When we ask him where he come from, he points to the +north; when we ask him where he is going, he shake his head as he not +know. A man is mad not to know where he travel to up here; something +comes quick to him unless, and it is not good to die too soon. The +trader said, ‘Come with us.’ He shake his head, No. ‘P’r’aps you want to +stay here,’ said Ridley loud, showing his teeth all in a minute. He nod. +Then the trader laugh thick in his throat and give him more soup. After, +he try to make the man talk; but he was stubborn like that dirty Whiskey +Wine--ah, sacre bleu!” + +Whiskey Wine had his usual portion of whip and anathema before Jacques +again took up the thread. “It was no use. He would not talk. When the +trader get angry once more, he turned to me, and the look in his face +make me sorry. I swore--Ridley did not mind that, I was thick friends +with him. I say, ‘Keep still. It is no good. He has had bad times. He +has been lost, and seen mad things. He will never be again like when God +make him.’ Very well, I spoke true. He was like a sun dog.” + +“What’s that ye say, Parfaite?” said Shon--“a sun dog?” + +Sir Duke Lawless, puzzled, listened eagerly for the reply. + +The half-breed in delight ran before them, cracking his whip and +jingling the bells at his knees. “Ah, that’s it! It is a name we have +for some. You do not know? It is easy. In the high-up country”--pointing +north”--you see sometimes many suns. But it is not many after all; +it is only one; and the rest are the same as your face in +looking-glasses--one, two, three, plenty. You see?” + +“Yes,” said Sir Duke, “reflections of the real sun.” Parfaite tapped him +on the arm. “So: you have the thing. Well, this man is not himself--he +have left himself where he seen his bad times. It makes your flesh creep +sometimes when you see the sun dogs in the sky--this man did the same. +You shall see him tonight.” + +Sir Duke looked at the little half-breed, and wondered that the product +of so crude a civilisation should be so little crude in his imagination. +“What happened?” he asked. + +“Nothing happened. But the man could not sleep. He sit before the fire, +his eyes moving here and there, and sometimes he shiver. Well, I watch +him. In the morning we leave him there, and he has been there ever +since--the only man at the Fort. The Indians do not go; they fear him; +but there is no harm in him. He is old now. In an hour we’ll be there.” + +The sun was hanging, with one shoulder up like a great red peering +dwarf, on the far side of a long hillock of stunted pines, when the +three arrived at the Fort. The yard was still as Parfaite had described +it--full of rank grass, through which one path trailed to the open door. +On the stockade walls grass grew, as though where men will not live like +men Nature labours to smother. The shutters of the window were not open; +light only entered through narrow openings in them, made for the needs +of possible attacks by Indians in the far past. One would have sworn +that anyone dwelling there was more like the dead than the living. Yet +it had, too, something of the peace of the lonely graveyard. There was +no one in the Fort; but there were signs of life--skins piled here +and there, a few utensils, a bench, a hammock for food swung from the +rafters, a low fire burning in the chimney, and a rude spear stretched +on the wall. + +“Sure, the place gives you shivers!” said Shon. “Open go these windows. +Put wood on the fire, Parfaite; cook the meat that we’ve brought, and +no other, me boy; and whin we’re filled wid a meal and the love o’ God, +bring in your Lost Man, or Sun Dog, or whativer’s he by name or nature.” + +While Parfaite and Shon busied themselves, Lawless wandered out with his +gun, and, drawn on by the clear joyous air of the evening, walked along +a path made by the same feet that had travelled the yard of the Fort. +He followed it almost unconsciously at first, thinking of the strange +histories that the far north hoards in its fastnesses, wondering what +singular fate had driven the host of this secluded tavern--farthest from +the pleasant south country, nearest to the Pole--to stand, as it were, +a sentinel at the raw outposts of the world. He looked down at the trail +where he was walking with a kind of awe, which even his cheerful common +sense could not dismiss. + +He came to the top of a ridge on which were a handful of meagre trees. +Leaning on his gun, he looked straight away into the farthest distance. +On the left was a blurred edge of pines, with tops like ungainly +tendrils feeling for the sky. On the right was a long bare stretch of +hills veiled in the thin smoke of the evening, and between, straight +before him, was a wide lane of unknown country, billowing away to where +it froze into the vast archipelago that closes with the summit of the +world. He experienced now that weird charm which has drawn so many into +Arctic wilds and gathered the eyes of millions longingly. Wife, child, +London, civilisation, were forgotten for the moment. He was under a +spell which, once felt, lingers in your veins always. + +At length his look drew away from the glimmering distance, and he +suddenly became conscious of human presence. Here, almost at his feet, +was a man, also looking out along that slumbering waste. He was dressed +in skins, his arms were folded across his breast, his chin bent low, and +he gazed up and out from deep eyes shadowed by strong brows. Lawless saw +the shoulders of the watcher heave and shake once or twice, and then +a voice with a deep aching trouble in it spoke; but at first he could +catch no words. Presently, however, he heard distinctly, for the man +raised his hands high above his head, and the words fell painfully: “Am +I my brother’s keeper?” + +Then a low harsh laugh came from him, and he was silent again. Lawless +did not move. At last the man turned round, and, seeing him standing +motionless, his gun in his hands, he gave a hoarse cry. Then he stood +still. “If you have come to kill, do not wait,” he said; “I am ready.” + +At the sound of Lawless’s reassuring voice he recovered, and began, in +stumbling words, to excuse himself. His face was as Jacques Parfaite +had described it: trouble of some terrible kind was furrowed in it, and, +though his body was stalwart, he looked as if he had lived a century. +His eyes dwelt on Sir Duke Lawless for a moment, and then, coming +nearer, he said, “You are an Englishman?” + +Lawless held out his hand in greeting, yet he was not sorry when the +other replied: “The hand of no man in greeting. Are you alone?” + +When he had been told, he turned towards the Fort, and silently they +made their way to it. At the door he turned and said to Lawless, “My +name--to you--is Detmold.” + +The greeting between Jacques and his sombre host was notable for +its extreme brevity; with Shon McGann for its hesitation--Shon’s +impressionable Irish nature was awed by the look of the man, though he +had seen some strange things in the north. Darkness was on them by this +time, and the host lighted bowls of fat with wicks of deer’s tendons, +and by the light of these and the fire they ate their supper. Parfaite +beguiled the evening with tales of the north, always interesting to +Lawless; to which Shon added many a shrewd word of humour--for he +had recovered quickly from his first timidity in the presence of the +stranger. + +As time went on Jacques saw that their host’s eyes were frequently fixed +on Sir Duke in a half-eager, musing way, and he got Shon away to bed and +left the two together. + +“You are a singular man. Why do you live here?” said Lawless. Then he +went straight to the heart of the thing. “What trouble have you had, of +what crime are you guilty?” + +The man rose to his feet, shaking, and walked to and fro in the room +for a time, more than once trying to speak, but failing. He beckoned +to Lawless, and opened the door. Lawless took his hat and followed him +along the trail they had travelled before supper until they came to the +ridge where they had met. The man faced the north, the moon glistening +coldly on his grey hair. He spoke with incredible weight and slowness: + +“I tell you--for you are one who understands men, and you come from +a life that I once knew well. I know of your people. I was of good +family--” + +“I know the name,” said Sir Duke quietly, at the same time fumbling +in his memory for flying bits of gossip and history which he could not +instantly find. + +“There were two brothers of us. I was the younger. A ship was going +to the Arctic Sea.” He pointed into the north. “We were both young and +ambitious. He was in the army, I the navy. We went with the expedition. +At first it was all beautiful and grand, and it seemed noble to search +for those others who had gone into that land and never come back. But +our ship got locked in the ice, and then came great trouble. A year went +by and we did not get free; then another year began.... Four of us set +out for the south. Two died. My brother and I were left--” + +Lawless exclaimed. He now remembered how general sympathy went out to a +well-known county family when it was announced that two of its members +were lost in the Arctic regions. + +Detmold continued: “I was the stronger. He grew weaker and weaker. It +was awful to live those days: the endless snow and cold, the long nights +when you could only hear the whirring of meteors, the bright sun which +did not warm you, nor even when many suns, the reflections of itself, +followed it--the mocking sun dogs, no more the sun than I am what my +mother brought into the world.... We walked like dumb men, for the +dreadful cold fills the heart with bitterness. I think I grew to hate +him because he could not travel faster, that days were lost, and death +crept on so pitilessly. Sometimes I had a mad wish to kill him. May you +never know suffering that begets such things! I laughed as I sat beside +him, and saw him sink to sleep and die.... I think I could have saved +him. When he was gone I--what do men do sometimes when starvation is +on them, and they have a hunger of hell to live? I did that shameless +thing--and he was my brother!... I lived, and was saved.” + +Lawless shrank away from the man, but words of horror got no farther +than his throat. And he was glad afterwards that it was so; for when +he looked again at this woful relic of humanity before him he felt a +strange pity. + +“God’s hand is on me to punish,” said the man. “It will never be lifted. +Death were easy: I bear the infamy of living.” + +Lawless reached out and caught him gently by the shoulders. “Poor +fellow! poor Detmold!” he said. For an instant the sorrowful face +lighted, the square chin trembled, and the hands thrust out towards +Lawless, but suddenly dropped. + +“Go,” he said humbly, “and leave me here. We must not meet again... I +have had one moment of respite.... Go.” + +Without a word, Lawless turned and made his way to the Fort. In the +morning the three comrades started on their journey again; but no one +sped them on their way or watched them as they went. + + + + +THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR + +He lived in a hut on a jutting crag of the Cliff of the King. You could +get to it by a hard climb up a precipitous pathway, or by a ladder +of ropes which swung from his cottage door down the cliff-side to the +sands. The bay that washed the sands was called Belle Amour. The cliff +was huge, sombre; it had a terrible granite moroseness. If you travelled +back from its edge until you stood within the very heart of Labrador, +you would add step upon step of barrenness and austerity. + +Only at seasons did the bay share the gloom of the cliff. When out +of its shadow it was, in summer, very bright and playful, sometimes +boisterous, often idle, coquetting with the sands. There was a great +difference between the cliff and the bay: the cliff was only as it +appeared, but the bay was a shameless hypocrite. For under one shoulder +it hid a range of reefs, and, at a spot where the shadows of the cliff +never reached it, and the sun played with a grim kind of joy, a long +needle of rock ran up at an angle under the water, waiting to pierce +irresistibly the adventurous ship that, in some mad moment, should creep +to its shores. + +The man was more like the cliff than the bay: stern, powerful, brooding. +His only companions were the Indians, who in summer-time came and went, +getting stores of him, which he in turn got from a post of the Hudson’s +Bay Company, seventy miles up the coast. At one time the Company, +impressed by the number of skins brought to them by the pilot, and the +stores he bought of them, had thought of establishing a post at Belle +Amour; but they saw that his dealings with them were fair and that he +had small gain, and they decided to use him as an unofficial agent, and +reap what profit was to be had as things stood. Kenyon, the Company’s +agent, who had the Post, was keen to know why Gaspard the pilot lived at +Belle Amour. No white man sojourned near him, and he saw no one save +now and then a priest who travelled silently among the Indians, or +some fisherman, hunter, or woodsman, who, for pleasure or from pure +adventure, ran into the bay and tasted the hospitality tucked away on a +ledge of the Cliff of the King. + +To Kenyon, Gaspard was unresponsive, however adroit the catechism. +Father Corraine also, who sometimes stepped across the dark threshold of +Gaspard’s hut, would have, for the man’s soul’s sake, dug out the heart +of his secret; but Gaspard, open with food, fire, blanket, and tireless +attendance, closed like the doors of a dungeon when the priest would +have read him. At the name of good Ste. Anne he would make the sacred +gesture, and would take a blessing when the priest passed from his hut +to go again into the wilds; but when pressed to disclose his mind and +history, he would always say: “M’sieu’, I have nothing to confess.” + After a number of years the priest ceased to ask him, and he remained +with the secret of his life, inscrutable and silent. + +Being vigilant, one would have seen, however, that he lived in some +land of memory or anticipation, beyond his life of daily toil and usual +dealing. The hut seemed to have been built at a point where east and +west and south the great gulf could be seen and watched. It seemed +almost ludicrous that a man should call himself a pilot on a coast and +at a bay where a pilot was scarce needed once a year. But he was known +as Gaspard the pilot, and on those rare occasions when a vessel did +anchor in the bay, he performed his duties with such a certainty as to +leave unguessed how many deathtraps crouched near that shore. At such +times, however, Gaspard seemed to look twenty years younger. A light +would come into his face, a stalwart kind of pride sit on him, though +beneath there lurked a strange, sardonic look in his deep eyes--such a +grim furtiveness as though he should say: “If I but twist my finger we +are all for the fishes.” But he kept his secret and waited. He never +seemed to tire of looking down the gulf, as though expecting some ship. +If one appeared and passed on, he merely nodded his head, hung up his +glass, returned to his work, or, sitting by the door, talked to himself +in low, strange tones. If one came near, making as if it would enter +the bay, a hungry joy possessed him. If a storm was on, the joy was the +greater. No pilot ever ventured to a ship on such rough seas as Gaspard +ventured for small profit or glory. + +Behind it all lay his secret. There came one day a man who discovered +it. + +It was Pierre, the half-breed adventurer. There was no point in all the +wild northland which Pierre had not touched. He loved it as he loved the +game of life. He never said so of it, but he never said so of the game +of life, and he played it with a deep subterranean joy. He had had his +way with the musk-ox in the Arctic Circle; with the white bear at the +foot of Alaskan Hills; with the seal in Baffin’s Bay; with the puma on +the slope of the Pacific; and now at last he had come upon the trail of +Labrador. Its sternness, its moodiness pleased him. He smiled at it the +comprehending smile of the man who has fingered the nerves and the heart +of men and things. As a traveller, wandering through a prison, looks +upon its grim cells and dungeons with the eye of unembarrassed freedom, +finding no direful significance in the clank of its iron, so Pierre +travelled down with a handful of Indians through the hard fastnesses of +that country, and, at last, alone, came upon the bay of Belle Amour. + +There was in him some antique touch of refinement and temperament which, +in all his evil days and deeds and moments of shy nobility, could find +its way into the souls of men with whom the world had had an awkward +hour. He was a man of little speech, but he had that rare persuasive +penetration which unlocked the doors of trouble, despair, and tragedy. +Men who would never have confessed to a priest confessed to him. In +his every fibre was the granite of the Indian nature, which looked upon +punishment with stoic satisfaction. + +In the heart of Labrador he had heard of Gaspard, and had travelled to +that point in the compass where he could find him. One day when the sun +was fighting hard to make a pathway of light in front of Gaspard’s +hut, Pierre rounded a corner of the cliff and fronted Gaspard as he sat +there, his eyes idling gloomily with the sea. They said little to each +other--in new lands hospitality has not need of speech. When Gaspard +and Pierre looked each other in the eyes they knew that one word between +them was as a hundred with other men. The heart knows its confessor, +and the confessor knows the shadowed eye that broods upon some ghostly +secret; and when these are face to face there comes a merciless +concision of understanding. + +“From where away?” said Gaspard, as he handed some tobacco to Pierre. + +“From Hudson’s Bay, down the Red Wolf Plains, along the hills, across +the coast country, here.” + +“Why?” Gaspard eyed Pierre’s small kit with curiosity; then flung up a +piercing, furtive look. Pierre shrugged his shoulders. + +“Adventure, adventure,” he answered. “The land”--he pointed north, west, +and east--“is all mine. I am the citizen of every village and every camp +of the great north.” + +The old man turned his head towards a spot up the shore of Belle Amour, +before he turned to Pierre again, with a strange look, and said: “Where +do you go?” + +Pierre followed his gaze to that point in the shore, felt the +undercurrent of vague meaning in his voice, guessed what was his cue, +and said: “Somewhere, sometime; but now only Belle Amour. I have had +a long travel. I have found an open door. I will stay--if you +please--hein? If you please?” + +Gaspard brooded. “It is lonely,” he replied. “This day it is all bright; +the sun shines and the little gay waves crinkle to the shore. But, mon +Dieu! sometimes it is all black and ugly with storm. The waves come +grinding, booming in along the gridiron rocks”--he smiled a grim +smile--“break through the teeth of the reefs, and split with a roar of +hell upon the cliff. And all the time, and all the time,”--his voice got +low with a kind of devilish joy,--“there is a finger--Jesu! you should +see that finger of the devil stretch up from the bowels of the earth, +waiting, waiting for something to come out of the storm. And then--and +then you can hear a wild laugh come out of the land, come up from the +sea, come down from the sky--all waiting, waiting for something! No, no, +you would not stay here.” + +Pierre looked again to that point in the shore towards which Gaspard’s +eyes had been cast. The sun was shining hard just then, and the stern, +sharp rocks, tumbling awkwardly back into the waste behind, had an +insolent harshness. Day perched garishly there. Yet now and then the +staring light was broken by sudden and deep shadows--great fissures in +the rocks and lanes between. These gave Pierre a suggestion, though why, +he could not say. He knew that when men live lives of patient, gloomy +vigilance, they generally have something to watch and guard. Why should +Gaspard remain here year after year? His occupation was nominally a +pilot in a bay rarely touched by vessels, and then only for shelter. A +pilot need not take his daily life with such brooding seriousness. +In body he was like flexible metal, all cord and muscle. He gave the +impression of bigness, though he was small in stature. Yet, as Pierre +studied him, he saw something that made him guess the man had had about +him one day a woman, perhaps a child; no man could carry that look +unless. If a woman has looked at you from day to day, something of her, +some reflection of her face, passes to yours and stays there; and if a +child has held your hand long, or hung about your knees, it gives you a +kind of gentle wariness as you step about your home. + +Pierre knew that a man will cherish with a deep, eternal purpose a +memory of a woman or a child, when, no matter how compelling his cue +to remember where a man is concerned, he will yield it up in the end to +time. Certain speculations arranged themselves definitely in Pierre’s +mind: there was a woman, maybe a child once; there was some sorrowful +mystery about them; there was a point in the shore that had held the old +man’s eyes strangely; there was the bay with that fantastic “finger of +the devil” stretching up from the bowels of the world. Behind the symbol +lay the Thing what was it? + +Long time he looked out upon the gulf, then his eyes drew into the bay +and stayed there, seeing mechanically, as a hundred fancies went through +his mind. There were reefs of which the old man had spoken. He could +guess from the colour and movement of the water where they were. The +finger of the devil--was it not real? A finger of rock, waiting as the +old man said--for what? + +Gaspard touched his shoulder. He rose and went with him into the gloomy +cabin. They ate and drank in silence. When the meal was finished they +sat smoking till night fell. Then the pilot lit a fire, and drew his +rough chair to the door. Though it was only late summer, it was cold +in the shade of the cliff. Long time they sat. Now and again Pierre +intercepted the quick, elusive glance of his silent host. Once the pilot +took the pipe from his mouth, and leaned his hands on his knees as if +about to speak. But he did not. + +Pierre saw that the time was ripe for speech. So he said, as though he +knew something: “It is a long time since it happened?” + +Gaspard, brooding, answered: “Yes, a long time--too long.” Then, as if +suddenly awakened to the strangeness of the question, he added, in a +startled way: “What do you know? Tell me quick what you know.” + +“I know nothing except what comes to me here, pilot,”--Pierre touched +his forehead, “but there is a thing--I am not sure what. There was a +woman--perhaps a child; there is something on the shore; there is a +hidden point of rock in the bay; and you are waiting for a ship--for the +ship, and it does not come--isn’t that so?” + +Gaspard got to his feet, and peered into Pierre’s immobile face. Their +eyes met. + +“Mon Dieu!” said the pilot, his hand catching the smoke away from +between them, “you are a droll man; you have a wonderful mind. You are +cold like ice, and still there is in you a look of fire.” + +“Sit down,” answered Pierre quietly, “and tell me all. Perhaps I could +think it out little by little; but it might take too long--and what is +the good?” + +Slowly Gaspard obeyed. Both hands rested on his knees, and he stared +abstractedly into the fire. Pierre thrust forward the tobacco-bag. +His hand lifted, took the tobacco, and then his eyes came keenly to +Pierre’s. He was about to speak.... “Fill your pipe first,” said the +half-breed coolly. The old man did so abstractedly. When the pipe was +lighted, Pierre said: “Now!” + +“I have never told the story, never--not even to Pere Corraine. But +I know, I have it here”--he put his hand to his forehead, as did +Pierre--“that you will be silent.” Pierre nodded. + +“She was fine to see. Her eyes were black as beads; and when she laugh +it was all music. I was so happy! We lived on the island of the Aux +Coudres, far up there at Quebec. It was a wild place. There were +smugglers and others there--maybe pirates. But she was like a saint of +God among all. I was lucky man. I was pilot, and took ships out to sea, +and brought them in safe up the gulf. It is not all easy, for there are +mad places. Once or twice when a wild storm was on I could not land at +Cap Martin, and was carried out to sea and over to France.... Well, that +was not so bad; there was plenty to eat and drink, nothing to do. But +when I marry it was differen’. I was afraid of being carried away and +leave my wife--the belle Mamette--alone long time. You see, I was young, +and she was ver’ beautiful.” + +He paused and caught his hand over his mouth as though to stop a sound: +the lines of his face deepened. Presently he puffed his pipe so hard +that the smoke and the sparks hid him in a cloud through which he spoke. +“When the child was born--Holy Mother! have you ever felt the hand of +your own child in yours, and looked at the mother, as she lies there all +pale and shining between the quilts?” + +He paused. Pierre’s eyes dropped to the floor. Gaspard continued: “Well, +it is a great thing, and the babe was born quick one day when we were +all alone. A thing like that gives you wonder. Then I could not bear to +go away with the ships, and at last I said: ‘One month, and then the +ice fills the gulf, and there will be no more ships for the winter. +That will be the last for me. I will be pilot no more-no.’ She was ver’ +happy, and a laugh ran over her little white teeth. Mon Dieu, I stop +that laugh pretty quick--in fine way!” + +He seemed for an instant to forget his great trouble, and his face went +to warm sunshine like a boy’s; but it was as sun playing on a scarred +fortress. Presently the light faded out of his face and left it like +iron smouldering from the bellows. + +“Well,” he said, “you see there was a ship to go almost the last of the +season, and I said to my wife, ‘Mamette, it is the last time I shall be +pilot. You must come with me and bring the child, and they will put us +off at Father Point, and then we will come back slow to the village on +the good Ste. Anne and live there ver’ quiet.’ When I say that to her +she laugh back at me and say, ‘Beau! beau!’ and she laugh in the child’s +eyes, and speak--nom de Dieu! she speak so gentle and light--and say to +the child: ‘Would you like go with your father a pretty journey down the +gulf?’ And the little child laugh back at her, and shake its soft brown +hair over its head. They were both so glad to go. I went to the captain +of the ship. I say to him, ‘I will take my wife and my little child, and +when we come to Father Point we will go ashore.’ Bien, the captain laugh +big, and it was all right. That was long time ago--long time.” + +He paused again, threw his head back with a despairing toss, his chin +dropped on his breast, his hands clasped between his knees, and his +pipe, laid beside him on the bench, was forgotten. + +Pierre quietly put some wood upon the fire, opened his kit, drew out +from it a little flask of rum and laid it upon the bench beside the +pipe. A long time passed. At last Gaspard roused himself with a long +sigh, turned and picked up the pipe, but, seeing the flask of rum, +lifted it, and took one long swallow before he began to fill and light +his pipe. There came into his voice something of iron hardness as he +continued his story. + +“Alors, we went into the boat. As we travelled down the gulf a great +storm came out of the north. We thought it would pass, but it stayed on. +When we got to the last place where the pilot could land, the waves were +running like hills to the shore, and no boat could live between the ship +and the point. For myself, it was nothing--I am a strong man and a great +swimmer. But when a man has a wife and a child, it is differen’. So the +ship went on out into the ocean with us. Well, we laugh a little, and +think what a great brain I had when I say to my wife: ‘Come and bring +the child for the last voyage of Gaspard the pilot.’ You see, there we +were on board the ship, everything ver’ good, plenty to eat, much to +drink, to smoke, all the time. The sailors, they were ver’ funny, and to +see them take my child, my little Babette, and play with her as she roll +on the deck--merci, it was gran’! So I say to my wife: + +“‘This will be bon voyage for all.’ But a woman, she has not the mind +like a man. When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil, a +woman laugh too, but there come a little quick sob to her lips. You ask +her why, and she cannot tell. She know that something will happen. A man +has great idee, a woman great sight. So my wife, she turn her face away +all sad from me then, and she was right--she was right! + +“One day in the ocean we pass a ship--only two days out. The ship signal +us. I say to my wife: ‘Ha, ha! now we can go back, maybe, to the good +Ste. Anne.’ Well, the ships come close together, and the captain of the +other ship he have something importan’ with ours. He ask if there will +be chance of pilot into the gulf, because it is the first time that he +visit Quebec. The captain swing round and call to me. I go up. I bring +my wife and my little Babette; and that was how we sail back to the +great gulf. + +“When my wife step on board that ship I see her face get pale, and +something strange in her eyes. I ask her why; she do not know, but she +hug Babette close to her breast with a kind of fear. A long, low, black +ship, it could run through every sea. Soon the captain come to me and +say: ‘You know the coast, the north coast of the gulf, from Labrador to +Quebec?’ I tell him yes. ‘Well,’ he say, ‘do you know of a bay where few +ships enter safe?’ I think a moment and I tell him of Belle Amour. Then +he say, ver’ quick: ‘That is the place; we will go to the bay of Belle +Amour.’ He was ver’ kind to my face; he give my wife and child +good berth, plenty to eat and drink, and once more I laugh; but my +wife--there was in her face something I not understan’. It is not easy +to understan’ a woman. We got to the bay. I had pride: I was young. I +was the best pilot in the St. Lawrence, and I took in the ship between +the reefs of the bay, where they run like a gridiron, and I laugh when I +swing the ship all ver’ quick to the right, after we pass the reefs, and +make a curve round--something. The captain pull me up and ask why. But +I never tell him that. I not know why I never tell him. But the good God +put the thought into my head, and I keep it to this hour, and it never +leave me, never--never!” + +He slowly rubbed his hands up and down his knees, took another sip of +rum, and went on: + +“I brought the ship close up to the shore, and we go to anchor. All that +night I see the light of a fire on the shore. So I slide down and swim +to the shore. Under a little arch of rocks something was going on. +I could not tell, but I know from the sound that they are to bury +something. Then, all at once, it come to me--this is a pirate ship! I +come closer and closer to the light, and then I see a dreadful thing. +There was the captain and the mate, and another. They turn quick upon +two other men--two sailors--and kill them. Then they take the bodies +and wound them round some casks in a great hole, and cover it all up. I +understan’. It is the old legend that a dead body will keep gold all to +itself, so that no one shall find it. Mon Dieu!”--his voice dropped low +and shook in his throat--“I give one little cry at the sight, and then +they see me. There were three. They were armed; they sprang upon me and +tied me. Then they fling me beside the fire, and they cover up the hole +with the gold and the bodies. + +“When that was done they take me back to the ship, then with pistols at +my head they make me pilot the ship out into the bay again. As we went +they make a chart of the place. We travel along the coast for one day; +and then a great storm of snow come, and the captain say to me: ‘Steer +us into harbour.’ When we are at anchor, they take me and my wife, and +little child and put us ashore alone, with a storm and the bare rocks +and the dreadful night, and leave us there, that we shall never tell the +secret of the gold. That night my wife and my child die in the snow.” + +Here his voice became strained and slow. “After a long time I work my +way to an Injin camp. For months I was a child in strength, all my flesh +gone. When the spring come I went and dug a deeper grave for my wife, +and p’tite Babette, and leave them there, where they had died. But I +come to the bay of Belle Amour, because I knew some day the man with +the devil’s heart would come back for his gold, and then would arrive my +time--the hour of God!” + +He paused. “The hour of God,” he repeated slowly. “I have waited twenty +years, but he has not come; yet I know that he will come. I feel it +here”--he touched his forehead; “I know it here”--he tapped his heart. +“Once where my heart was, there is only one thing, and it is hate, and I +know--I know--that he will come. And when he comes--” He raised his arm +high above his head, laughed wildly, paused, let the hand drop, and then +fell to staring into the fire. + +Pierre again placed the flask of rum between his fingers. But Gaspard +put it down, caught his arms together across his breast, and never +turned his face from the fire. Midnight came, and still they sat there +silent. No man had a greater gift in waiting than Pierre. Many a time +his life had been a swivel, upon which the comedies and tragedies of +others had turned. He neither loved nor feared men: sometimes he pitied +them. He pitied Gaspard. He knew what it is to have the heartstrings +stretched out, one by one, by the hand of a Gorgon, while the feet are +chained to the rocking world. + +Not till the darkest hour of the morning did the two leave their silent +watch and go to bed. The sun had crept stealthily to the door of the but +before they rose again. Pierre laid his hand upon Gaspard’s shoulder as +they travelled out into the morning, and said: “My friend, I understand. +Your secret is safe with me; you shall take me to the place where the +gold is buried, but it shall wait there until the time is ripe. What is +gold to me? Nothing. To find gold--that is the trick of any fool. To win +it or to earn it is the only game. Let the bodies rot about the gold. +You and I will wait. I have many friends in the northland, but there +is no face in any tent door looking for me. You are alone: well, I will +stay with you. Who can tell--perhaps it is near at hand--the hour of +God!” + +The huge hard hand of Gaspard swallowed the small hand of Pierre, and, +in a voice scarcely above a whisper, he answered: “You shall be my +comrade. I have told you all, as I have never told it to my God. I do +not fear you about the gold--it is all cursed. You are not like other +men; I will trust you. Some time you also have had the throat of a man +in your fingers, and watched the life spring out of his eyes, and leave +them all empty. When men feel like that, what is gold--what is anything! +There is food in the bay and on the hills. + +“We will live together, you and I. Come and I will show you the place of +hell.” + +Together they journeyed down the crag and along the beach to the place +where the gold, the grim god of this world, was fortressed and bastioned +by its victims. + +The days went on; the weeks and months ambled by. Still the two lived +together. Little speech passed between them, save that speech of +comrades, who use more the sign than the tongue. It seemed to Pierre +after a time that Gaspard’s wrongs were almost his own. Yet with this +difference: he must stand by and let the avenger be the executioner; he +must be the spectator merely. + +Sometimes he went inland and brought back moose, caribou, and the skins +of other animals, thus assisting Gaspard in his dealings with the great +Company. But again there were days when he did nothing but lie on the +skins at the hut’s door, or saunter in the shadows and the sunlight. +Not since he had come to Gaspard had a ship passed the bay or sought to +anchor in it. + +But there came a day. It was the early summer. The snow had shrunk from +the ardent sun, and had swilled away to the gulf, leaving the tender +grass showing. The moss on the rocks had changed from brown to green, +and the vagrant birds had fluttered back from the south. The winter’s +furs had been carried away in the early spring to the Company’s post, +by a detachment of coureurs de bois. There was little left to do. This +morning they sat in the sun looking out upon the gulf. Presently Gaspard +rose and went into the hut. Pierre’s eyes still lazily scanned the +water. As he looked he saw a vessel rounding a point in the distance. +Suppose this was the ship of the pirate and murderer? The fancy diverted +him. His eyes drew away from the indistinct craft--first to the reefs, +and then to that spot where the colossal needle stretched up under the +water. It was as Pierre speculated. Brigond, the French pirate, who had +hidden his gold at such shameless cost, was, after twenty years in the +galleys at Toulon, come back to find his treasure. He had doubted little +that he would find it. The lonely spot, the superstition concerning dead +bodies, the supposed doom of Gaspard, all ran in his favour. His little +craft came on, manned by as vile a mob as ever mutinied or built a +wrecker’s fire. + +When the ship got within a short distance of the bay, Pierre rose and +called. Gaspard came to the door. “There’s work to do, pilot,” he said. +Gaspard felt the thrill of his voice, and flashed a look out to the +gulf. He raised his hands with a gasp. “I feel it,” he said: “it is the +hour of God!” + +He started to the rope ladder of the cliff, then wheeled suddenly and +came back to Pierre. “You must not come,” he said. “Stay here and watch; +you shall see great things.” His voice had a round, deep tone. He caught +both Pierre’s hands in his and added: “It is for my wife and child; I +have no fear. Adieu, my friend! When you see the good Pere Corraine say +to him--but no, it is no matter--there is One greater!” + +Once again he caught Pierre hard by the shoulder, then ran to the cliff +and swung down the ladder. All at once there shot through Pierre’s body +an impulse, and his eyes lighted with excitement. He sprang towards +the cliff. “Gaspard, come back!” he called; then paused, and, with an +enigmatical smile, shrugged his shoulders, drew back, and waited. + +The vessel was hove to outside the bay, as if hesitating. Brigond was +considering whether it were better, with his scant chart, to attempt the +bay, or to take small boats and make for the shore. He remembered the +reefs, but he did not know of the needle of rock. Presently he saw +Gaspard’s boat coming. “Someone who knows the bay,” he said; “I see a +hut on the cliff.” + +“Hello, who are you?” Brigond called down as Gaspard drew alongside. + +“A Hudson’s Bay Company’s man,” answered Gaspard. + +“How many are there of you?” + +“Myself alone.” + +“Can you pilot us in?” + +“I know the way.” + +“Come up.” + +Gaspard remembered Brigond, and he veiled his eyes lest the hate he felt +should reveal him. No one could have recognised him as the young pilot +of twenty years before. Then his face was cheerful and bright, and in +his eye was the fire of youth. Now a thick beard and furrowing lines hid +all the look of the past. His voice, too, was desolate and distant. + +Brigond clapped him on the shoulder. “How long have you lived off +there?” he asked, as he jerked his finger towards the shore. + +“A good many years.” + +“Did anything strange ever happen there?” Gaspard felt his heart +contract again, as it did when Brigond’s hand touched his shoulder. + +“Nothing strange is known.” + +A vicious joy came into Brigond’s face. His fingers opened and shut. +“Safe, by the holy heaven!” he grunted. + +“‘By the holy heaven!’” repeated Gaspard, under his breath. + +They walked forward. Almost as they did so there came a big puff of wind +across the bay: one of those sudden currents that run in from the ocean +and the gulf stream. Gaspard saw, and smiled. In a moment the vessel’s +nose was towards the bay, and she sailed in, dipping a shoulder to the +sudden foam. On she came past reef and bar, a pretty tumbril to the +slaughter. The spray feathered up to her sails, the sun caught her on +deck and beam; she was running dead for the needle of rock. + +Brigond stood at Gaspard’s side. All at once Gaspard made the sacred +gesture and said, in a low tone, as if only to himself: “Pardon, mon +capitaine, mon Jesu!” Then he turned triumphantly, fiercely, upon +Brigond. The pirate was startled. “What’s the matter?” he said. + +Not Gaspard, but the needle rock replied. There was a sudden shock; +the vessel stood still and shivered; lurched, swung shoulder downwards, +reeled and struggled. Instantly she began to sink. + +“The boats! lower the boats!” cried Brigond. “This cursed fool has run +us on a rock!” + +The waves, running high, now swept over the deck. Brigond started aft, +but Gaspard sprang before him. “Stand back!” he called. “Where you are +you die!” + +Brigond, wild with terror and rage, ran at him. Gaspard caught him as he +came. With vast strength he lifted him and dashed him to the deck. “Die +there, murderer!” he cried. + +Brigond crouched upon the deck, looking at him with fearful eyes. +“Who-are you?” he asked. + +“I am Gaspard the pilot. I have waited for you twenty years. Up there, +in the snow, my wife and child died. Here, in this bay, you die.” + +There was noise and racketing behind them, but they two heard nothing. +The one was alone with his terror, the other with his soul. Once, twice, +thrice, the vessel heaved, then went suddenly still. + +Gaspard understood. One look at his victim, then he made the sacred +gesture again, and folded his arms. Pierre, from the height of the +cliff, looking down, saw the vessel dip at the bow, and then the waters +divided and swallowed it up. + +“Gaspard should have lived,” he said. “But--who can tell! Perhaps +Mamette was waiting for him.” + + + + +THE CRUISE OF THE “NINETY-NINE” + +I. THE SEARCH + +She was only a big gulf yawl, which a man and a boy could manage at a +pinch, with old-fashioned high bulwarks, but lying clean in the water. +She had a tolerable record for speed, and for other things so important +that they were now and again considered by the Government at Quebec. She +was called the Ninety-Nine. With a sense of humour the cure had called +her so, after an interview with her owner and captain, Tarboe the +smuggler. When he said to Tarboe at Angel Point that he had come to +seek the one sheep that was lost, leaving behind him the other +ninety-and-nine within the fold at Isle of Days, Tarboe had replied that +it was a mistake--he was the ninety-nine, for he needed no repentance, +and immediately offered the cure some old brown brandy of fine flavour. +They both had a whimsical turn, and the cure did not ask Tarboe how he +came by such perfect liquor. Many high in authority, it was said, had +been soothed even to the winking of an eye when they ought to have sent +a Nordenfeldt against the Ninety-Nine. + +The day after the cure left Angel Point he spoke of Tarboe and his craft +as the Ninety-and-Nine; and Tarboe hearing of this--for somehow he heard +everything--immediately painted out the old name, and called her the +Ninety-Nine, saying that she had been so blessed by the cure. Afterwards +the Ninety-Nine had an increasing reputation for exploit and daring. In +brief, Tarboe and his craft were smugglers, and to have trusted gossip +would have been to say that the boat was as guilty as the man. + +Their names were much more notorious than sweet; and yet in Quebec men +laughed as they shrugged their shoulders at them; for as many jovial +things as evil were told of Tarboe. When it became known that a +dignitary of the Church had been given a case of splendid wine, which +had come in a roundabout way to him, men waked in the night and laughed, +to the annoyance of their wives; for the same dignitary had preached a +powerful sermon against smugglers and the receivers of stolen goods. It +was a sad thing for monsignor to be called a Ninety-Niner, as were all +good friends of Tarboe, high and low. But when he came to know, after +the wine had been leisurely drunk and becomingly praised, he brought his +influence to bear in civic places, so that there was nothing left to do +but to corner Tarboe at last. + +It was in the height of summer, when there was little to think of in the +old fortressed city, and a dart after a brigand appealed to the romantic +natures of the idle French folk, common and gentle. + +Through clouds of rank tobacco smoke, and in the wash of their bean +soup, the habitants discussed the fate of “Black Tarboe,” and officers +of the garrison and idle ladies gossiped at the Citadel and at Murray +Bay of the freebooting gentlemen, whose Ninety-Nine had furnished forth +many a table in the great walled city. But Black Tarboe himself was down +at Anticosti, waiting for a certain merchantman. Passing vessels saw the +Ninety-Nine anchored in an open bay, flying its flag flippantly before +the world--a rag of black sheepskin, with the wool on, in profane +keeping with its name. + +There was no attempt at hiding, no skulking behind a point, or scurrying +from observation, but an indolent and insolent waiting--for something. +“Black Tarboe’s getting reckless,” said one captain coming in, and +another, going out, grinned as he remembered the talk at Quebec, and +thought of the sport provided for the Ninety-Nine when she should come +up stream; as she must in due time, for Tarboe’s home was on the Isle of +Days, and was he not fond and proud of his daughter Joan to a point of +folly? He was not alone in his admiration of Joan, for the cure at Isle +of Days said high things of her. + +Perhaps this was because she was unlike most other girls, and women too, +in that she had a sense of humour, got from having mixed with choice +spirits who visited her father and carried out at Angel Point a kind of +freemasonry, which had few rites and many charges and countercharges. +She had that almost impossible gift in a woman--the power of telling +a tale whimsically. It was said that once, when Orvay Lafarge, a new +Inspector of Customs, came to spy out the land, she kept him so amused +by her quaint wit, that he sat in the doorway gossiping with her, while +Tarboe and two others unloaded and safely hid away a cargo of liquors +from the Ninety-Nine. And one of the men, as cheerful as Joan herself, +undertook to carry a little keg of brandy into the house, under the very +nose of the young inspector, who had sought to mark his appointment +by the detection and arrest of Tarboe single-handed. He had never met +Tarboe or Tarboe’s daughter when he made his boast. If his superiors had +known that Loco Bissonnette, Tarboe’s jovial lieutenant, had carried +the keg of brandy into the house in a water-pail, not fifteen feet from +where Lafarge sat with Joan, they might have asked for his resignation. +True, the thing was cleverly done, for Bissonnette made the water spill +quite naturally against his leg, and when he turned to Joan and said +in a crusty way that he didn’t care if he spilled all the water in the +pail, he looked so like an unwilling water-carrier that Joan for one +little moment did not guess. When she understood, she laughed till the +tears came to her eyes, and presently, because Lafarge seemed hurt, gave +him to understand that he was upon his honour if she told him what it +was. He consenting, she, still laughing, asked him into the house, and +then drew the keg from the pail, before his eyes, and, tapping it, +gave him some liquor, which he accepted without churlishness. He found +nothing in this to lessen her in his eyes, for he knew that women +have no civic virtues. He drank to their better acquaintance with few +compunctions; a matter not scandalous, for there is nothing like a witty +woman to turn a man’s head, and there was not so much at stake after +all. Tarboe had gone on for many a year till his trade seemed like the +romance of law rather than its breach. It is safe to say that Lafarge +was a less sincere if not a less blameless customs officer from this +time forth. For humour on a woman’s lips is a potent thing, as any man +knows that has kissed it off in laughter. + +As we said, Tarboe lay rocking in a bight at Anticosti, with an empty +hold and a scanty larder. Still, he was in no ill-humour, for he smoked +much and talked more than common. Perhaps that was because Joan was with +him--an unusual thing. She was as good a sailor as her father, but +she did not care, nor did he, to have her mixed up with him in +his smuggling. So far as she knew, she had never been on board the +Ninety-Nine when it carried a smuggled cargo. She had not broken the +letter of the law. Her father, on asking her to come on this cruise, had +said that it was a pleasure trip to meet a vessel in the gulf. + +The pleasure had not been remarkable, though there had been no bad +weather. The coast of Anticosti is cheerless, and it is possible even +to tire of sun and water. True, Bissonnette played the concertina with +passing sweetness, and sang as little like a wicked smuggler as one +might think. But there were boundaries even to that, as there were to +his love-making, which was, however, so interwoven with laughter that it +was impossible to think the matter serious. Sometimes of an evening Joan +danced on deck to the music of the concertina--dances which had their +origin largely with herself fantastic, touched off with some unexpected +sleight of foot--almost uncanny at times to Bissonnette, whose +temperament could hardly go her distance when her mood was as this. + +Tarboe looked on with a keener eye and understanding, for was she not +bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh? Who was he that he should fail +to know her? He saw the moonlight play on her face and hair, and he +waved his head with the swaying of her body, and smacked his lips in +thought of the fortune which, smuggling days over, would carry them +up to St. Louis Street, Quebec, there to dwell as in a garden of good +things. + +After many days had passed, Joan tired of the concertina, of her own +dancing, of her father’s tales, and became inquisitive. So at last she +said: + +“Father, what’s all this for?” + +Tarboe did not answer her at once, but, turning to Bissonnette, asked +him to play “The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose.” It was a gay little +demoiselle according to Bissonnette, and through the creaking, windy +gaiety Tarboe and his daughter could talk without being heard by the +musician. Tarboe lit another cigar--that badge of greatness in the eyes +of his fellow-habitants, and said: + +“What’s all this for, Joan? Why, we’re here for our health.” His teeth +bit on the cigar with enjoyable emphasis. + +“If you don’t tell me what’s in the wind, you’ll be sorry. Come, where’s +the good? I’ve got as much head as you have, father, and--” + +“Mon Dieu! Much more. That’s not the question. It was to be a surprise +to you.” + +“Pshaw! You can only have one minute of surprise, and you can have +months of fun looking out for a thing. I don’t want surprises; I want +what you’ve got--the thing that’s kept you good-tempered while we lie +here like snails on the rocks.” + +“Well, my cricket, if that’s the way you feel, here you are. It is a +long story, but I will make it short. Once there was a pirate called +Brigond, and he brought into a bay on the coast of Labrador a fortune in +some kegs--gold, gold! He hid it in a cave, wrapping around it the dead +bodies of two men. It is thought that one can never find it so. He hid +it, and sailed away. He was captured, and sent to prison in France for +twenty years. Then he come back with a crew and another ship, and sailed +into the bay, but his ship went down within sight of the place. And so +the end of him and all. But wait. There was one man, the mate on the +first voyage. He had been put in prison also. He did not get away as +soon as Brigond. When he was free, he come to the captain of a ship that +I know, the Free-and-Easy, that sails to Havre, and told him the story, +asking for passage to Quebec. The captain--Gobal--did not believe it, +but said he would bring him over on the next voyage. Gobal come to me +and told me all there was to tell. I said that it was a true story, for +Pretty Pierre told me once he saw Brigond’s ship go down in the bay; but +he would not say how, or why, or where. Pierre would not lie in a thing +like that, and--” + +“Why didn’t he get the gold himself?” + +“What is money to him? He is as a gipsy. To him the money is cursed. He +said so. Eh bien! some wise men are fools, one way or another. Well, +I told Gobal I would give the man the Ninety-Nine for the cruise and +search, and that we should divide the gold between us, if it was found, +taking out first enough to make a dot for you and a fine handful for +Bissonnette. But no, shake not your head like that. It shall be so. Away +went Gobal four months ago, and I get a letter from him weeks past, just +after Pentecost, to say he would be here some time in the first of July, +with the man. + +“Well, it is a great game. The man is a pirate, but it does not +matter--he has paid for that. I thought you would be glad of a fine +adventure like that, so I said to you, Come.” + +“But, father--” + +“If you do not like you can go on with Gobal in the Free-and-Easy, and +you shall be landed at the Isle of Days. That’s all. We’re waiting here +for Gobal. He promised to stop just outside this bay and land our man on +us. Then, blood of my heart, away we go after the treasure!” + +Joan’s eyes flashed. Adventure was in her as deep as life itself. She +had been cradled in it, reared in it, lived with it, and here was no +law-breaking. Whose money was it? No one’s: for who should say what +ship it was, or what people were robbed by Brigond and those others? +Gold--that was a better game than wine and brandy, and for once her +father would be on a cruise which would not be, as it were, sailing in +forbidden waters. + +“When do you expect Gobal?” she asked eagerly. “He ought to have been +here a week ago. Maybe he has had a bad voyage, or something.” + +“He’s sure to come?” + +“Of course. I found out about that. She’s got a big consignment to +people in Quebec. Something has gone wrong, but she’ll be here--yes.” + +“What will you do if you get the money?” she asked. Tarboe laughed +heartily. “My faith! Come play up those scarlet hose, Bissonnette! My +faith, I’ll go into Parliament at Quebec. Thunder! I will have sport +with them. I’ll reform the customs. There shan’t be any more smuggling. +The people of Quebec shall drink no more good wine--no one except Black +Tarboe, the member for Isle of Days.” + +Again he laughed, and his eyes spilt fire like revolving wheels. For a +moment Joan was quiet; her face was shining like the sun on a river. She +saw more than her father, for she saw release. A woman may stand by a +man who breaks the law, but in her heart she always has bitterness, for +that the world shall speak well of herself and what she loves is the +secret desire of every woman. In her heart she never can defy the world +as does a man. + +She had carried off the situation as became the daughter of a daring +adventurer, who in more stirring times might have been a Du Lhut or a +Rob Roy, but she was sometimes tired of the fighting, sometimes wishful +that she could hold her position easier. Suppose the present good cure +should die and another less considerate arrive, how hard might her +position become! Then, she had a spirit above her station, as have most +people who know the world and have seen something of its forbidden side; +for it is notable that wisdom comes not alone from loving good things, +but from having seen evil as well as good. Besides Joan was not a woman +to go singly to her life’s end. + +There was scarcely a man on Isle of Days and in the parish of Ste. +Eunice, on the mainland, but would gladly have taken to wife the +daughter of Tarboe the smuggler, and it is likely that the cure of +either parish would not have advised against it. + +Joan had had the taste of the lawless, and now she knew, as she sat and +listened to Bissonnette’s music, that she also could dance for joy, +in the hope of a taste of the lawful. With this money, if it were got, +there could be another life--in Quebec. She could not forbear laughing +now as she remembered that first day she had seen Orvay Lafarge, and +she said to Bissonnette: “Loce, do you mind the keg in the water-pail?” + Bissonnette paused on an out-pull, and threw back his head with a +soundless laugh, then played the concertina into contortions. + +“That Lafarge! H’m! He is very polite; but pshaw, it is no use that, in +whisky-running! To beat a great man, a man must be great. Tarboe Noir +can lead M’sieu’ Lafarge all like that!” + +It seemed as if he were pulling the nose of the concertina. Tarboe began +tracing a kind of maze with his fingers on the deck, his eyes rolling +outward like an endless puzzle. But presently he turned sharp on Joan. + +“How many times have you met him?” he asked. “Oh, six or seven--eight or +nine, perhaps.” + +Her father stared. “Eight or nine? By the holy! Is it like that? Where +have you seen him?” + +“Twice at our home, as you know; two or three times at dances at the +Belle Chatelaine, and the rest when we were at Quebec in May. He is +amusing, M’sieu’ Lafarge.” + +“Yes, two of a kind,” remarked Tarboe drily; and then he told his +schemes to Joan, letting Bissonnette hang up the “The Demoiselle with +the Scarlet Hose,” and begin “The Coming of the Gay Cavalier.” She +entered into his plans with spirit, and together they speculated what +bay it might be, of the many on the coast of Labrador. + +They spent two days longer waiting, and then at dawn a merchantman +came sauntering up to anchor. She signalled to the Ninety-Nine. In +five minutes Tarboe was climbing up the side of the Free-and-Easy, and +presently was in Gobal’s cabin, with a glass of wine in his hand. + +“What kept you, Gobal?” he asked. “You’re ten days late, at least.” + +“Storm and sickness--broken mainmast and smallpox.” Gobal was not +cheerful. + +Tarboe caught at something. “You’ve got our man?” Gobal drank off his +wine slowly. “Yes,” he said. “Well?--Why don’t you fetch him?” + +“You can see him below.” + +“The man has legs, let him walk here. Hello, my Gobal, what’s the +matter? If he’s here bring him up. We’ve no time to lose.” + +“Tarboe, the fool got smallpox, and died three hours ago--the tenth man +since we started. We’re going to give him to the fishes. They’re putting +him in his linen now.” + +Tarboe’s face hardened. Disaster did not dismay him, it either made him +ugly or humourous, and one phase was as dangerous as the other. + +“D’ye mean to say,” he groaned, “that the game is up? Is it all +finished? Sweat o’ my soul, my skin crawls like hot glass! Is it the +end, eh? The beast, to die!” + +Gobal’s eyes glistened. He had sent up the mercury, he would now bring +it down. + +“Not such a beast as you think. Alive pirate, a convict, as comrade in +adventure, is not sugar in the teeth. This one was no better than the +worst. Well, he died. That was awkward. But he gave me the chart of the +bay before he died--and that was damn square.” + +Tarboe held out his hand eagerly, the big fingers bending claw-like. + +“Give it me, Gobal,” he said. + +“Wait. There’s no hurry. Come along, there’s the bell: they’re going to +drop him.” + +He coolly motioned, and passed out from the cabin to the ship’s side. +Tarboe kept his tongue from blasphemy, and his hand from the captain’s +shoulder, for he knew only too well that Gobal held the game in his +hands. They leaned over and saw two sailors with something on a plank. + +“We therefore commit his body to the deep, in the knowledge of the +Judgment Day--let her go!” grunted Gobal; and a long straight canvas +bundle shot with a swishing sound beneath the water. “It was rough +on him too,” he continued. “He waited twenty years to have his chance +again. Damn me, if I didn’t feel as if I’d hit him in the eye, somehow, +when he begged me to keep him alive long enough to have a look at the +rhino. But it wasn’t no use. He had to go, and I told him so. + +“Then he did the fine thing: he give me the chart. But he made me swear +on a book of the Mass that if we got the gold we’d send one-half his +share to a woman in Paris, and the rest to his brother, a priest at +Nancy. I’ll keep my word--but yes! Eh, Tarboe?” + +“You can keep your word for me! What, you think, Gobal, there is no +honour in Black Tarboe, and you’ve known me ten years! Haven’t I always +kept my word like a clock?” + +Gobal stretched out his hand. “Like the sun-sure. That’s enough. We’ll +stand by my oath. You shall see the chart.” + +Going again inside the cabin, Gobal took out a map grimed with ceaseless +fingering, and showed it to Tarboe, putting his finger on the spot where +the treasure lay. + +“The Bay of Belle Amour!” cried Tarboe, his eyes flashing. “Ah, I know +it! That’s where Gaspard the pilot lived. It’s only forty leagues or so +from here.” His fingers ran here and there on the map. “Yes, yes,” he +continued, “it’s so, but he hasn’t placed the reef right. Ah, here is +how Brigond’s ship went down! There’s a needle of rock in the bay. It +isn’t here.” + +Gobal handed the chart over. “I can’t go with you, but I take your word; +I can say no more. If you cheat me I’ll kill you; that’s all.” + +“Let me give a bond,” said Tarboe quickly. “If I saw much gold perhaps +I couldn’t trust myself, but there’s someone to be trusted, who’ll swear +for me. If my daughter Joan give her word--” + +“Is she with you?” + +“Yes, in the Ninety-Nine, now. I’ll send Bissonnette for her. Yes, yes, +I’ll send, for gold is worse than bad whisky when it gets into a man’s +head. Joan will speak for me.” + +Ten minutes later Joan was in Gobal’s cabin, guaranteeing for her father +the fulfilment of his bond. An hour afterwards the Free-and-Easy was +moving up stream with her splintered mast and ragged sails, and the +Ninety-Nine was looking up and over towards the Bay of Belle Amour. She +reached it in the late afternoon of the next day. Bissonnette did not +know the object of the expedition, but he had caught the spirit of the +affair, and his eyes were like spots of steel as he held the sheet or +took his turn at the tiller. Joan’s eyes were now on the sky, now on +the sail, and now on the land, weighing as wisely as her father the +advantage of the wind, yet dwelling on that cave where skeletons kept +ward over the spoils of a pirate ship. + +They arrived, and Tarboe took the Ninety-Nine warily in on a little wind +off the land. He came near sharing the fate of Brigond, for the yawl +grazed the needle of the rock that, hiding away in the water, with +a nose out for destruction, awaits its victims. They reached safe +anchorage, but by the time they landed it was night, with, however, a +good moon showing. + +All night they searched, three silent, eager figures, drawing step by +step nearer the place where the ancient enemy of man was barracked about +by men’s bodies. It was Joan who, at last, as dawn drew up, discovered +the hollow between two great rocks where the treasure lay. A few +minutes’ fierce digging, and the kegs of gold were disclosed, showing +through the ribs of two skeletons. Joan shrank back, but the two men +tossed aside the rattling bones, and presently the kegs were standing +between them on the open shore. Bissonnette’s eyes were hungry--he knew +now the wherefore of the quest. He laughed outright, a silly, loud, +hysterical laugh. Tarboe’s eyes shifted from the sky to the river, from +the river to the kegs, from the kegs to Bissonnette. On him they stayed +a moment. Bissonnette shrank back. Tarboe was feeling for the first time +in his life the deadly suspicion which comes with ill-gotten wealth. +This passed as his eyes and Joan’s met, for she had caught the +melodrama, the overstrain; Bissonnette’s laugh had pointed the +situation; and her sense of humour had prevailed. “La, la,” she said, +with a whimsical quirk of the head, and no apparent relevancy: + + “Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, + Your house is on fire, and your children all gone.” + +The remedy was good. Tarboe’s eyes came again to their natural +liveliness, and Bissonnette said: + +“My throat’s like a piece of sand-paper.” + +Tarboe handed over a brandy flask, after taking a pull himself, and then +sitting down on one of the kegs, he said: “It is as you see, and now +Angel Point very quick. To get it there safe, that’s the thing!” Then, +scanning the sky closely: “It’s for a handsome day, and the wind goes +to bear us up fine. Good! Well, for you, Bissonnette, there shall be a +thousand dollars, you shall have the Belle Chatelaine Inn and the little +lady at Point Pierrot. For the rest, you shall keep a quiet tongue, eh? +If not, my Bissonnette, we shall be the best of strangers, and you shall +not be happy. Hein?” + +Bissonnette’s eyes flashed. “The Belle Chatelaine? Good! That is enough. +My tongue is tied; I cannot speak; it is fastened with a thousand pegs.” + +“Very good, a thousand gold pegs, and you shall never pull them. The +little lady will have you with them, not without; and unless you stand +by me, no one shall have you at any price--by God!” + +He stood up, but Joan put out her hand. “You have been speaking, now it +is my turn. Don’t cry cook till you have the venison home. What is +more, I gave my word to Gobal, and I will keep it. I will be captain. +No talking! When you’ve got the kegs in the cellar at Angel Point, good! +But now--come, my comrades, I am your captain!” + +She was making the thing a cheerful adventure, and the men now swung +the kegs on their shoulders and carried them to the boat. In another +half-hour they were under way in the gaudy light of an orange sunrise, a +simmering wind from the sea lifting them up the river, and the grey-red +coast of Labrador shrinking sullenly back. + +About this time, also, a Government cutter was putting out from under +the mountain-wall at Quebec, its officer in command having got renewed +orders from the Minister to bring in Tarboe the smuggler. And when Mr. +Martin, the inspector in command of the expedition, was ordered to take +with him Mr. Orvay Lafarge and five men, “effectively armed,” it was +supposed by the romantic Minister that the matter was as good as done. + +What Mr. Orvay Lafarge did when he got the word, was to go straight to +his hat-peg, then leave the office, walk to the little club where he +spent leisure hours, called office hours by people who wished to be +precise as well as suggestive,--sit down, and raise a glass to his lips. +After which he threw himself back in his chair and said: “Well, I’m +particularly damned!” A few hours later they were away on their doubtful +exploit. + + +II. THE DEFENCE + +On the afternoon of the second day after she left Labrador, the +Ninety-Nine came rippling near Isle of Fires, not sixty miles from her +destination, catching a fair wind on her quarter off the land. Tarboe +was in fine spirits, Joan was as full of songs as a canary, and +Bissonnette was as busy watching her as in keeping the nose of the +Ninety-Nine pointing for Cap de Gloire. Tarboe was giving the sail full +to the wind, and thinking how he would just be able to reach Angel Point +and get his treasure housed before mass in the morning. + +Mass! How many times had he laughed as he sat in church and heard the +cure have his gentle fling at smuggling! To think that the hiding-place +for his liquor was the unused, almost unknown, cellar of that very +church, built a hundred years before as a refuge from the Indians, which +he had reached by digging a tunnel from the shore to its secret passage! +That was why the customs officers never found anything at Angel Point, +and that was why Tarboe much loved going to mass. He sometimes thought +he could catch the flavour of the brands as he leaned his forehead +on the seat before him. But this time he would go to mass with a fine +handful of those gold pieces in his pocket, just to keep him in a +commendable mood. He laughed out loud at the thought of doing so within +a stone’s throw of a fortune and nose-shot of fifty kegs of brandy. + +As he did so, Bissonnette gave a little cry. They were coming on to +Cap de Gloire at the moment, and Tarboe and Joan, looking, saw a boat +standing off towards the mainland, as if waiting for them. Tarboe gave +a roar, and called to Joan to take the tiller. He snatched a glass and +levelled it. + +“A Government tug!” he said, “and tete de Diable! there’s your tall +Lafarge among ‘em, Joan! I’d know him by his height miles off.” + +Joan lost colour a trifle and then got courage. “Pshaw,” she said, “what +does he want?” + +“Want? Want? He wants the Ninety-Nine and her cargo; but by the sun of +my soul, he’ll get her across the devil’s gridiron! See here, my girl, +this ain’t any sport with you aboard. Bissonnette and I could make a +stand for it alone, but what’s to become of you? I don’t want you mixed +up in the mess.” + +The girl was eyeing the Government boat. “But I’m in it, and I can’t be +out of it, and I don’t want to be out now that I am in. Let me see the +glass.” She took it in one hand. “Yes, it must be M’sieu’ Lafarge,” she +said, frowning. “He might have stayed out of this.” + +“When he’s got orders, he has to go,” answered her father; “but he must +look out, for a gun is a gun, and I don’t pick and choose. Besides, I’ve +no contraband this cruise, and I’ll let no one stick me up.” + +“There are six or seven of them,” said Joan debatingly. + +“Bring her up to the wind,” shouted Tarboe to Bissonnette. The mainsail +closed up several points, the Ninety-Nine slackened her pace and edged +in closer to the land. “Now, my girl,” said Tarboe, “this is how it +stands. If we fight, there’s someone sure to be hurt, and if I’m hurt, +where’ll you be?” + +Bissonnette interposed. “We’ve got nothing contraband. The gold is +ours.” + +“Trust that crew--but no!” cried Tarboe, with an oath. “The Government +would hold the rhino for possible owners, and then give it to a convent +or something. They shan’t put foot here. They’ve said war, and they’ll +get it. They’re signalling us to stop, and they’re bearing down. There +goes a shot!” + +The girl had been watching the Government boat coolly. Now that it began +to bear on, she answered her father’s question. + +“Captain,” she said, like a trusted mate, “we’ll bluff them.” Her +eyes flashed with the intelligence of war. “Here, quick, I’ll take the +tiller. They haven’t seen Bissonnette yet; he sits low. Call all hands +on deck--shout! Then, see: Loce will go down the middle hatch, get a +gun, come up with it on his shoulder, and move on to the fo’castle. Then +he’ll drop down the fo’castle hatch, get along to the middle hatch, and +come up again with the gun, now with his cap, now without it, now with +his coat, now without it. He’ll do that till we’ve got twenty or thirty +men on deck! They’ll think we’ve been laying for them, and they’ll not +come on--you see!” + +Tarboe ripped out an oath. “It’s a great game,” he said, and a moment +afterwards, in response to his roars, Bissonnette came up the hatch with +his gun showing bravely; then again and again, now with his cap, now +without, now with his coat, now with none, anon with a tarpaulin over +his shoulders grotesquely. Meanwhile Tarboe trained his one solitary +little cannon on the enemy, roaring his men into place. + +From the tug it seemed that a large and well-armed crew were ranging +behind the bulwarks of the Ninety-Nine. Mr. Martin, the inspector, saw +with alarm Bissonnette’s constantly appearing rifle. + +“They’ve arranged a plant for us, Mr. Lafarge. What do you think we’d +better do?” he asked. + +“Fight!” answered Lafarge laconically. He wished to put himself on +record, for he was the only one on board who saw through the ruse. + +“But I’ve counted at least twenty men, all armed, and we’ve only five.” + +“As you please, sir,” said Lafarge bluntly, angry at being tricked, but +inwardly glad to be free of the business, for he pictured to himself +that girl at the tiller--he had seen her as she went aft--in a police +court at Quebec. Yet his instinct for war and his sense of duty impelled +him to say: “Still, sir, fight!” + +“No, no, Mr. Lafarge,” excitedly rejoined his chief. “I cannot risk it. +We must go back for more men and bring along a Gatling. Slow down!” he +called. Lafarge turned on his heel with an oath, and stood watching the +Ninety-Nine. + +“She’ll laugh at me till I die!” he said to himself presently, as the +tug turned up stream and pointed for Quebec. “Well, I’m jiggered!” he +added, as a cannon shot came ringing over the water after them. He was +certain also that he heard loud laughter. No doubt he was right; for +as the tug hurried on, Tarboe ran to Joan, hugged her like a bear, and +roared till he ached. Then she paid out the sheet, they clapped on all +sail, and travelled in the track of the enemy. + +Tarboe’s spirit was roused. He was not disposed to let his enemy off on +even such terms, so he now turned to Joan and said: “What say you to a +chase of the gentleman?” + +Joan was in a mood for such a dare-devil adventure. For three people, +one of whom was a girl, to give chase to a well-manned, well-armed +Government boat was too good a relish to be missed. Then, too, it had +just occurred to her that a parley would be amusing, particularly if she +and Lafarge were the truce-bearers. So she said: “That is very good.” + +“Suppose they should turn and fight?” suggested Bissonnette. + +“That’s true--here’s m’am’selle,” agreed Tarboe. “But, see,” said Joan. +“If we chase them and call upon them to surrender--and after all, we can +prove that we had nothing contraband--what a splendid game it’ll be!” + Mischief flicked in her eyes. + +“Good!” said Tarboe. “To-morrow I shall be a rich man, and then they’ll +not dare to come again.” + +So saying, he gave the sail to the wind, and away the Ninety-Nine went +after the one ewe lamb of the Government. + +Mr. Martin saw her coming, and gave word for all steam. It would be +a pretty game, for the wind was in Tarboe’s favour, and the general +advantage was not greatly with the tug. Mr. Martin was now anxious +indeed to get out of the way of the smuggler. Lafarge made one +restraining effort, then settled into an ironical mood. Yet a half-dozen +times he was inclined to blurt out to Martin what he believed was the +truth. A man, a boy, and a girl to bluff them that way! In his bones he +felt that it was the girl who was behind this thing. Of one matter he +was sure--they had no contraband stuff on board, or Tarboe would not +have brought his daughter along. He could not understand the attitude, +for Tarboe would scarcely have risked the thing out of mere bravado. Why +not call a truce? Perhaps he could solve the problem. They were keeping +a tolerably safe distance apart, and there was no great danger of the +Ninety-Nine overhauling them even if it so willed; but Mr. Martin did +not know that. + +What he said to his chief had its effect, and soon there was a +white flag flying on the tug. It was at once answered with a white +handkerchief of Joan’s. Then the tug slowed up, the Ninety-Nine came on +gaily, and at a good distance came up to the wind, and stood off. + +“What do you want?” asked Tarboe through his speaking-tube. + +“A parley,” called Mr. Martin. + +“Good; send an officer,” answered Tarboe. + +A moment after, Lafarge was in a boat rowing over to meet another +boat rowed by Joan alone, who, dressed in a suit of Bissonnette’s, had +prevailed on her father to let her go. + +The two boats nearing each other, Joan stood up, saluting, and Lafarge +did the same. + +“Good-day, m’sieu’,” said Joan, with assumed brusqueness, mischief +lurking about her mouth. “What do you want?” + +“Good-day, monsieur; I did not expect to confer with you.” + +“M’sieu’,” said Joan, with well-acted dignity, “if you prefer to confer +with the captain or Mr. Bissonnette, whom I believe you know in the +matter of a pail, and--” + +“No, no; pardon me, monsieur,” said Lafarge more eagerly than was good +for the play, “I am glad to confer with you, you will understand--you +will understand--” He paused. + +“What will I understand?” + +“You will understand that I understand!” Lafarge waved meaningly towards +the Ninety-Nine, but it had no effect at all. Joan would not give the +game over into his hands. + +“That sounds like a charade or a puzzle game. We are gentlemen on a +serious errand, aren’t we?” + +“Yes,” answered Lafarge, “perfect gentlemen on a perfectly serious +errand!” + +“Very well, m’sieu’. Have you come to surrender?” The splendid impudence +of the thing stunned Lafarge, but he said: “I suppose one or the other +ought to surrender; and naturally,” he added with slow point, “it should +be the weaker.” + +“Very well. Our captain is willing to consider conditions. You came down +on us to take us--a quiet craft sailing in free waters. You attack us +without cause. We summon all hands, and you run. We follow, you ask +for truce. It is granted. We are not hard--no. We only want our rights. +Admit them; we’ll make surrender easy, and the matter is over.” + +Lafarge gasped. She was forcing his hand. She would not understand his +oblique suggestions. He saw only one way now, and that was to meet her, +boast for boast. + +“I haven’t come to surrender,” he said, “but to demand.” + +“M’sieu’,” Joan said grandly, “there’s nothing more to say. Carry word +to your captain that we’ll overhaul him by sundown, and sink him before +supper.” + +Lafarge burst out laughing. + +“Well, by the Lord, but you’re a swashbuckler, Joan--” + +“M’sieu’--” + +“Oh, nonsense! I tell you, nonsense! Let’s have over with this, my girl. +You’re the cleverest woman on the continent, but there’s a limit to +everything. Here, tell me now, and if you answer me straight I’ll say no +more.” + +“M’sieu’, I am here to consider conditions, not to--” “Oh, for God’s +sake, Joan! Tell me now, have you got anything contraband on board? +There’ll be a nasty mess about the thing, for me and all of us, and why +can’t we compromise? I tell you honestly we’d have come on, if I hadn’t +seen you aboard.” + +Joan turned her head back with a laugh. “My poor m’sieu’! You have such +bad luck. Contraband? Let me see? Liquors and wines and tobacco are +contraband. Is it not so?” Lafarge nodded. + +“Is money--gold--contraband?” + +“Money? No; of course not, and you know it. Why won’t you be sensible? +You’re getting me into a bad hole, and--” + +“I want to see how you’ll come out. If you come out well--” She paused +quaintly. + +“Yes, if I come out well--” + +“If you come out very well, and we do not sink you before supper, I may +ask you to come and see me.” + +“H’m! Is that all? After spoiling my reputation, I’m to be let come and +see you.” + +“Isn’t that enough to start with? What has spoiled your reputation?” + +“A man, a boy, and a slip of a girl.” He looked meaningly enough at her +now. She laughed. “See,” he added; “give me a chance. Let me search the +Ninety-Nine for contraband,--that’s all I’ve got to do with,--and then +I can keep quiet about the rest. If there’s no contraband, whatever else +there is, I’ll hold my tongue.” + +“I’ve told you what there is.” + +He did not understand. “Will you let me search?” Joan’s eyes flashed. +“Once and for all, no, Orvay Lafarge. I am the daughter of a man whom +you and your men would have killed or put in the dock. He’s been a +smuggler, and I know it. Who has he robbed? Not the poor, not the needy; +but a rich Government that robs also. Well, in the hour when he ceases +to be a smuggler for ever, armed men come to take him. Why didn’t they +do so before? Why so pious all at once? No; I am first the daughter of +my father, and afterwards--” + +“And afterwards?” + +“What to-morrow may bring forth.” + +Lafarge became very serious. “I must go back. Mr. Martin is signalling, +and your father is calling. I do not understand, but you’re the one +woman in the world for my money, and I’m ready to stand by that and +leave the customs to-morrow if need be.” + +Joan’s eyes blazed, her cheek was afire. “Leave it to-day. Leave it now. +Yes; that’s my one condition. If you want me, and you say you do, come +aboard the Ninety-Nine, and for to-day be one of us-to-morrow what you +will.” + +“What I will? What I will, Joan? Do you mean it?” + +“Yes. Pshaw! Your duty? Don’t I know how the Ministers and the officers +have done their duty at Quebec? It’s all nonsense. You must make your +choice once for all now.” + +Lafarge stood a moment thinking. “Joan, I’ll do it. I’d go hunting in +hell at your bidding. But see. Everything’s changed. I couldn’t fight +against you, but I can fight for you. All must be open now. You’ve said +there’s no contraband. Well, I’ll tell Mr. Martin so, but I’ll tell him +also that you’ve only a crew of two--” + +“Of three, now!” + +“Of three! I will do my duty in that, then resign and come over to you, +if I can.” + +“If you can? You mean that they may fire on you?” + +“I can’t tell what they may do. But I must deal fair.” + +Joan’s face was grave. “Very well, I will wait for you here.” + +“They might hit you.” + +“But no. They can’t hit a wall. Go on, my dear.” They saluted, and, as +Lafarge turned away, Joan said, with a little mocking laugh, “Tell him +that he must surrender, or we’ll sink him before supper.” + +Lafarge nodded, and drew away quickly towards the tug. His interview +with Mr. Martin was brief, and he had tendered his resignation, though +it was disgracefully informal, and was over the side of the boat again +and rowing quickly away before his chief recovered his breath. Then Mr. +Martin got a large courage. He called on his men to fire when Lafarge +was about two hundred and fifty feet from the tug. The shots rattled +about him. He turned round coolly and called out, “Coward-we’ll sink you +before supper!” + +A minute afterwards there came another shot, and an oar dropped from +his hand. But now Joan was rowing rapidly towards him, and presently was +alongside. + +“Quick, jump inhere,” she said. He did so, and she rowed on quickly. +Tarboe did not understand, but now his blood was up, and as another +volley sent bullets dropping around the two he gave the Ninety-Nine to +the wind, and she came bearing down smartly to them. In a few moments +they were safely on board, and Joan explained. Tarboe grasped Lafarge’s +unmaimed hand,--the other Joan was caring for,--and swore that fighting +was the only thing left now. + +Mr. Martin had said the same, but when he saw the Ninety-Nine +determined, menacing, and coming on, he became again uncertain, and +presently gave orders to make for the lighthouse on the opposite side of +the river. He could get over first, for the Ninety-Nine would not have +the wind so much in her favour, and there entrench himself; for even yet +Bissonnette amply multiplied was in his mind--Lafarge had not explained +that away. He was in the neighbourhood of some sunken rocks of which he +and his man at the wheel did not know accurately, and in making what he +thought was a clear channel he took a rock with great force, for they +were going full steam ahead. Then came confusion, and in getting out the +one boat it was swamped and a man nearly drowned. Meanwhile the tug was +fast sinking. + +While they were throwing off their clothes, the Ninety-Nine came down, +and stood off. On one hand was the enemy, on the other the water, with +the shore half a mile distant. + +“Do you surrender?” called out Tarboe. + +“Can’t we come aboard without that?” feebly urged Mr. Martin. + +“I’ll see you damned first, Mr. Martin. Come quick, or I’ll give you +what for.” + +“We surrender,” answered the officer gently. + +A few minutes later he and his men were on board, with their rifles +stacked in a corner at Bissonnette’s hand. + +Then Tarboe brought the Ninety-Nine close to the wreck, and with his +little cannon put a ball into her. This was the finish. She shook her +nose, shivered, shot down like a duck, and was gone. + +Mr. Martin was sad even to tears. + +“Now, my beauties,” said Tarboe, “now that I’ve got you safe, I’ll show +you the kind of cargo I’ve got.” A moment afterwards he hoisted a keg on +deck. “Think that’s whisky?” he asked. “Lift it, Mr. Martin.” Mr. Martin +obeyed. “Shake it,” he added. + +Mr. Martin did so. “Open it, Mr. Martin.” He held out a hatchet-hammer. +The next moment a mass of gold pieces yellowed to their eyes. Mr. Martin +fell back, breathing hard. + +“Is that contraband, Mr. Martin?” + +“Treasure-trove,” humbly answered the stricken officer. + +“That’s it, and in a month, Mr. Martin, I’ll be asking the chief of your +department to dinner.” + +Meanwhile Lafarge saw how near he had been to losing a wife and a +fortune. Arrived off Isle of Day; Tarboe told Mr. Martin and his men +that if they said “treasure-trove” till they left the island their live +would not be worth “a tinker’s damn.” When they had sworn, he took them +to Angel Point, fed then royally, gave them excellent liquor to drink, +and sent them in a fishing-smack with Bissonnette to Quebec where, +arriving, they told strange tales. + +Bissonnette bore a letter to a certain banker in Quebec, who already had +done business with Tarboe, and next midnight Tarboe himself, with Gobal, +Lafarge, Bissonnette, and another, came knocking at the banker’s door, +each carrying a keg on his shoulder and armed to the teeth. And, what +was singular two stalwart police-officers walked behind with comfortable +and approving looks. + +A month afterwards Lafarge and Joan were married in the parish church +at Isle of Days, and it was said that Mr. Martin, who, for some strange +reason, was allowed to retain his position in the customs, sent a +present. The wedding ended with a sensation, for just as the benediction +was pronounced a loud report was heard beneath the floor of the church. +There was great commotion, but Tarboe whispered in the curb’s ear, +and he blushing, announced that it was the bursting of a barrel. A few +minutes afterwards the people of the parish knew the old hiding-place of +Tarboe’s contraband, and, though the cure rebuked them, they roared with +laughter at the knowledge. + +“So droll, so droll, our Tarboe there!” they shouted, for already they +began to look upon him as their Seigneur. + +In time the cure forgave him also. + +Tarboe seldom left Isle of Days, save when he went to visit his +daughter, in St. Louis Street, Quebec, not far from the Parliament +House, where Orvay Lafarge is a member of the Ministry. The ex-smuggler +was a member of the Assembly for three months, but after defeating his +own party on a question of tariff, he gave a portrait of himself to the +Chamber, and threw his seat into the hands of his son-in-law. At the +Belle Chatelaine, where he often goes, he sometimes asks Bissonnette to +play “The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose.” + + + + +ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + +I + +When old Throng the trader, trembling with sickness and misery, got on +his knees to Captain Halby and groaned, “She didn’t want to go; they +dragged her off; you’ll fetch her back, won’t ye?--she always had a +fancy for you, cap’n,” Pierre shrugged a shoulder and said: + +“But you stole her when she was in her rock-a-by, my Throng--you and +your Manette.” + +“Like a match she was--no bigger,” continued the old man. “Lord, how +that stepmother bully-ragged her, and her father didn’t care a darn. +He’d half a dozen others--Manette and me hadn’t none. We took her and +used her like as if she was an angel, and we brought her off up here. +Haven’t we set store by her? Wasn’t it ‘cause we was lonely an’ loved +her we took her? Hasn’t everybody stood up and said there wasn’t anyone +like her in the North? Ain’t I done fair by her always--ain’t I? An’ +now, when this cough ‘s eatin’ my life out, and Manette ‘s gone, and +there ain’t a soul but Duc the trapper to put a blister on to me, them +brutes ride up from over the border, call theirselves her brothers, an’ +drag her off!” + +He was still on his knees. Pierre reached over and lightly kicked a +moccasined foot. + +“Get up, Jim Throng,” he said. “Holy! do you think the law moves because +an old man cries? Is it in the statutes?--that’s what the law says. Does +it come within the act? Is it a trespass--an assault and battery?--a +breach of the peace?--a misdemeanour? Victoria--So and So: that’s how +the law talks. Get on your knees to Father Corraine, not to Captain +Halby, Jimmy Throng.” + +Pierre spoke in a half-sinister, ironical way, for between him and +Captain Halby’s Riders of the Plains there was no good feeling. More +than once he had come into conflict with them, more than once had they +laid their hands on him--and taken them off again in due time. He had +foiled them as to men they wanted; he had defied them--but he had helped +them too, when it seemed right to him; he had sided with them once or +twice when to do so was perilous to himself. He had sneered at them, +he did not like them, nor they him. The sum of it was, he thought them +brave--and stupid; and he knew that the law erred as often as it set +things right. + +The Trader got up and stood between the two men, coughing much, his face +straining, his eyes bloodshot, as he looked anxiously from Pierre to +Halby. He was the sad wreck of a strong man. Nothing looked strong about +him now save his head, which, with its long grey hair, seemed badly +balanced by the thin neck, through which the terrible cough was hacking. + +“Only half a lung left,” he stammered, as soon as he could speak, “an’ +Duc can’t fix the boneset, camomile, and whisky, as she could. An’ he +waters the whisky--curse-his-soul!” The last three words were spoken +through another spasm of coughing. “An’ the blister--how he mucks the +blister!” + +Pierre sat back on the table, laughing noiselessly, his white teeth +shining. Halby, with one foot on a bench, was picking at the fur on +his sleeve thoughtfully. His face was a little drawn, his lips were +tight-pressed, and his eyes had a light of excitement. Presently he +straightened himself, and, after a half-malicious look at Pierre, he +said to Throng: + +“Where are they, do you say?” + +“They’re at”--the old man coughed hard--“at Fort O’Battle.” + +“What are they doing there?” + +“Waitin’ till spring, when they’ll fetch their cattle up an’ settle +there.” + +“They want--Lydia--to keep house for them?” The old man writhed. + +“Yes, God’s sake, that’s it! An’ they want Liddy to marry a devil +called Borotte, with a thousand cattle or so--Pito the courier told me +yesterday. Pito saw her, an’ he said she was white like a sheet, an’ +called out to him as he went by. Only half a lung I got, an’ her boneset +and camomile ‘d save it for a bit, mebbe--mebbe!” + +“It’s clear,” said Halby, “that they trespassed, and they haven’t proved +their right to her.” + +“Tonnerre, what a thinker!” said Pierre, mocking. Halby did not notice. +His was a solid sense of responsibility. + +“She is of age?” he half asked, half mused. + +“She’s twenty-one,” answered the old man, with difficulty. + +“Old enough to set the world right,” suggested Pierre, still mocking. + +“She was forced away, she regarded you as her natural protector, she +believed you her father: they broke the law,” said the soldier. + +“There was Moses, and Solomon, and Caesar, and Socrates, and now...!” + murmured Pierre in assumed abstraction. + +A red spot burned on Halby’s high cheekbone for a minute, but he +persistently kept his temper. + +“I’m expected elsewhere,” he said at last. “I’m only one man, yet I wish +I could go to-day--even alone. But--” + +“But you have a heart,” said Pierre. “How wonderful--a heart! And +there’s the half a lung, and the boneset and camomile tea, and the +blister, and the girl with an eye like a spot of rainbow, and the +sacred law in a Remington rifle! Well, well! And to do it in the early +morning--to wait in the shelter of the trees till some go to look after +the horses, then enter the house, arrest those inside, and lay low for +the rest.” + +Halby looked over at Pierre astonished. Here was raillery and good +advice all in a piece. + +“It isn’t wise to go alone, for if there’s trouble and I should go down, +who’s to tell the truth? Two could do it; but one--no, it isn’t wise, +though it would look smart enough.” + +“Who said to go alone?” asked Pierre, scrawling on the table with a +burnt match. + +“I have no men.” + +Pierre looked up at the wall. + +“Throng has a good Snider there,” he said. “Bosh! Throng can’t go.” + +The old man coughed and strained. + +“If it wasn’t--only-half a lung, and I could carry the boneset ‘long +with us.” + +Pierre slid off the table, came to the old man, and, taking him by +the arms, pushed him gently into a chair. “Sit down; don’t be a fool, +Throng,” he said. Then he turned to Halby: “You’re a magistrate--make me +a special constable; I’ll go, monsieur le capitaine--of no company.” + +Halby stared. He knew Pierre’s bravery, his ingenuity and daring. But +this was the last thing he expected: that the malicious, railing little +half-breed would work with him and the law. Pierre seemed to understand +his thoughts, for he said: “It is not for you. I am sick for adventure, +and then there is mademoiselle--such a finger she has for a ven’son +pudding.” + +Without a word Halby wrote on a leaf in his notebook, and presently +handed the slip to Pierre. “That’s your commission as a special +constable,” he said, “and here’s the seal on it.” He handed over a +pistol. + +Pierre raised his eyebrows at it, but Halby continued: “It has the +Government mark. But you’d better bring Throng’s rifle too.” + +Throng sat staring at the two men, his hands nervously shifting on +his knees. “Tell Liddy,” he said, “that the last batch of bread was +sour--Duc ain’t no good-an’ that I ain’t had no relish sence she left. +Tell her the cough gits lower down all the time. ‘Member when she tended +that felon o’ yourn, Pierre?” + +Pierre looked at a sear on his finger and nodded. “She cut it too young; +but she had the nerve! When do you start, captain? It’s an eighty-mile +ride.” + +“At once,” was the reply. “We can sleep to-night in the Jim-a-long-Jo” + (a hut which the Company had built between two distant posts), “and get +there at dawn day after to-morrow. The snow is light and we can travel +quick. I have a good horse, and you--” + +“I have my black Tophet. He’ll travel with your roan as on one +snaffle-bar. That roan--you know where he come from?” + +“From the Dolright stud, over the Border.” + +“That’s wrong. He come from Greystop’s paddock, where my Tophet was +foaled; they are brothers. Yours was stole and sold to the Gover’ment; +mine was bought by good hard money. The law the keeper of stolen +goods, eh? But these two will go cinch to cinch all the way, like two +brothers--like you and me.” + +He could not help the touch of irony in his last words: he saw the +amusing side of things, and all humour in him had a strain of the +sardonic. + +“Brothers-in-law for a day or two,” answered Halby drily. + +Within two hours they were ready to start. Pierre had charged Duc the +incompetent upon matters for the old man’s comfort, and had himself, +with a curious sort of kindness, steeped the boneset and camomile in +whisky, and set a cup of it near his chair. Then he had gone up to +Throng’s bedroom and straightened out and shook and “made” the corn-husk +bed, which had gathered into lumps and rolls. Before he came down he +opened a door near by and entered another room, shutting the door, and +sitting down on a chair. A stovepipe ran through the room, and it was +warm, though the window was frosted and the world seemed shut out. He +looked round slowly, keenly interested. There was a dressing-table made +of an old box; it was covered with pink calico, with muslin over this. +A cheap looking-glass on it was draped with muslin and tied at the top +with a bit of pink ribbon. A common bone comb lay near the glass, and +beside it a beautiful brush with an ivory back and handle. This was the +only expensive thing in the room. He wondered, but did not go near it +yet. There was a little eight-day clock on a bracket which had been made +by hand--pasteboard darkened with umber and varnished; a tiny little +set of shelves made of the wood of cigar-boxes; and--alas, the shifts +of poverty to be gay!--an easy-chair made of the staves of a barrel and +covered with poor chintz. Then there was a photograph or two, in little +frames made from the red cedar of cigar-boxes, with decorations of +putty, varnished, and a long panel screen of birch-bark of Indian +workmanship. Some dresses hung behind the door. The bedstead was small, +the frame was of hickory, with no footboard, ropes making the support +for the husk tick. Across the foot lay a bedgown and a pair of +stockings. + +Pierre looked long, at first curiously; but after a little his forehead +gathered and his lips drew in a little, as if he had a twinge of pain. +He got up, went over near the bed, and picked up a hairpin. Then he came +back to the chair and sat down, turning it about in his fingers, still +looking abstractedly at the floor. + +“Poor Lucy!” he said presently; “the poor child! Ah, what a devil I was +then--so long ago!” + +This solitary room--Lydia’s--had brought back the time he went to the +room of his own wife, dead by her own hand after an attempt to readjust +the broken pieces of life, and sat and looked at the place which had +been hers, remembering how he had left her with her wet face turned to +the wall, and never saw her again till she was set free for ever. Since +that time he had never sat in a room sacred to a woman alone. + +“What a fool, what a fool, to think!” he said at last, standing up; “but +this girl must be saved. She must have her home here again.” + +Unconsciously he put the hairpin in his pocket, walked over to the +dressing-table and picked up the hair-brush. On its back was the legend, +“L. T. from C. H.” He gave a whistle. + +“So-so?” he said, “‘C. H.’ M’sieu’ le capitaine, is it like that?” + +A year before, Lydia had given Captain Halby a dollar to buy her a +hair-brush at Winnipeg, and he had brought her one worth ten dollars. +She had beautiful hair, and what pride she had in using this brush! +Every Sunday morning she spent a long time in washing, curling, and +brushing her hair, and every night she tended it lovingly, so that it +was a splendid rich brown like her eye, coiling nobly above her plain, +strong face with its good colour. + +Pierre, glancing in the glass, saw Captain Halby’s face looking over +his shoulder. It startled him, and he turned round. There was the face +looking out from a photograph that hung on the wall in the recess where +the bed was. He noted now that the likeness hung where the girl could +see it the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. + +“So far as that, eh!” he said. “And m’sieu’ is a gentleman, too. We +shall see what he will do: he has his chance now, once for all.” + +He turned, came to the door, softly opened it, passed out, and shut +it, then descended the stairs, and in half an hour was at the door with +Captain Halby, ready to start. It was an exquisite winter day, even +in its bitter coldness. The sun was shining clear and strong, all the +plains glistened and shook like quicksilver, and the vast blue cup of +sky seemed deeper than it had ever been. But the frost ate the skin +like an acid, and when Throng came to the door Pierre drove him back +instantly from the air. + +“I only-wanted--to say--to Liddy,” hacked the old man, “that I’m +thinkin’--a little m’lasses ‘d kinder help--the boneset an’ camomile. +Tell her that the cattle ‘ll all be hers--an’--the house, an’ I ain’t +got no one but--” + +But Pierre pushed him back and shut the door, saying: “I’ll tell +her what a fool you are, Jimmy Throng.” The old man, as he sat down +awkwardly in his chair, with Duc stolidly lighting his pipe and watching +him, said to himself: “Yes, I be a durn fool; I be, I be!” over and over +again. And when the dog got up from near the stove and came near to him, +he added: “I be, Touser; I be a durn fool, for I ought to ha’ stole two +or three, an’ then I’d not be alone, an’ nothin’ but sour bread an’ pork +to eat. I ought to ha’ stole three.” + +“Ah, Manette ought to have given you some of your own, it’s true, that!” + said Duc stolidly. “You never was a real father, Jim.” + +“Liddy got to look like me; she got to look like Manette and me, I tell +ye!” said the old man hoarsely. Duc laughed in his stupid way. “Look +like you? Look like you, Jim, with a face to turn milk sour? Ho, ho!” + +Throng rose, his face purple with anger, and made as if to catch Duc by +the throat, but a fit of coughing seized him, and presently blood showed +on his lips. Duc, with a rough gentleness, wiped off the blood and put +the whisky-and-herbs to the sick man’s lips, saying, in a fatherly way: + +“For why you do like that? You’re a fool, Jimmy!” + +“I be, I be,” said the old man in a whisper, and let his hand rest on +Duc’s shoulder. + +“I’ll fix the bread sweet next time, Jimmy.” + +“No, no,” said the husky voice peevishly. “She’ll do it--Liddy’ll do it. +Liddy’s comin’.” + +“All right, Jimmy. All right.” + +After a moment Throng shook his head feebly and said, scarcely above a +whisper: + +“But I be a durn fool--when she’s not here.” + +Duc nodded and gave him more whisky and herbs. “My feet’s cold,” said +the old man, and Duc wrapped a bearskin round his legs. + + + +II + +For miles Pierre and Halby rode without a word. Then they got down and +walked for a couple of miles, to bring the blood into their legs again. + +“The old man goes to By-by bientot,” said Pierre at last. + +“You don’t think he’ll last long?” + +“Maybe ten days; maybe one. If we don’t get the girl, out goes his +torchlight straight.” + +“She’s been very good to him.” + +“He’s been on his knees to her all her life.” + +“There’ll be trouble out of this, though.” + +“Pshaw! The girl is her own master.” + +“I mean, someone will probably get hurt over there.” He nodded in the +direction of Fort O’Battle. + +“That’s in the game. The girl is worth fighting for, hein?” + +“Of course, and the law must protect her. It’s a free country.” + +“So true, my captain,” murmured Pierre drily. “It is wonderful what a +man will do for the law.” + +The tone struck Halby. Pierre was scanning the horizon abstractedly. + +“You are always hitting at the law,” he said. “Why do you stand by it +now?” + +“For the same reason as yourself.” + +“What is that?” + +“She has your picture in her room, she has my lucky dollar in her +pocket.” + +Halby’s face flushed, and then he turned and looked steadily into +Pierre’s eyes. + +“We’d better settle this thing at once. If you’re going to Fort O’Battle +because you’ve set your fancy there, you’d better go back now. That’s +straight. You and I can’t sail in the same boat. I’ll go alone, so give +me the pistol.” + +Pierre laughed softly, and waved the hand back. “T’sh! What a +high-cock-a-lorum! You want to do it all yourself--to fill the eye of +the girl alone, and be tucked away to By-by for your pains--mais, quelle +folie! See: you go for law and love; I go for fun and Jimmy Throng. The +girl? Pshaw! she would come out right in the end, without you or me. But +the old man with half a lung--that’s different. He must have sweet bread +in his belly when he dies, and the girl must make it for him. She shall +brush her hair with the ivory brush by Sunday morning.” + +Halby turned sharply. + +“You’ve been spying,” he said. “You’ve been in her room--you--” + +Pierre put out his hand and stopped the word on Halby’s lips. + +“Slow, slow,” he said; “we are both--police to-day. Voila! we must not +fight. There is Throng and the girl to think of.” Suddenly, with a soft +fierceness, he added: “If I looked in her room, what of that? In all the +North is there a woman to say I wrong her? No. Well, what if I carry her +room in my eye; does that hurt her or you?” + +Perhaps something of the loneliness of the outlaw crept into Pierre’s +voice for an instant, for Halby suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and +said: “Let’s drop the thing, Pierre.” + +Pierre looked at him musingly. + +“When Throng is put to By-by what will you do?” he asked. + +“I will marry her, if she’ll have me.” + +“But she is prairie-born, and you!” + +“I’m a prairie-rider.” + +After a moment Pierre said, as if to himself: “So quiet and clean, and +the print calico and muslin, and the ivory brush!” + +It is hard to say whether he was merely working on Halby that he be true +to the girl, or was himself softhearted for the moment. He had a +curious store of legend and chanson, and he had the Frenchman’s power +of applying them, though he did it seldom. But now he said in a half +monotone: + + “Have you seen the way I have built my nest? + (O brave and tall is the Grand Seigneur!) + I have trailed the East, I have searched the West, + (O clear of eye is the Grand Seigneur!) + From South and North I have brought the best: + The feathers fine from an eagle’s crest, + The silken threads from a prince’s vest, + The warm rose-leaf from a maiden’s breast + (O long he bideth, the Grand Seigneur!).” + +They had gone scarce a mile farther when Pierre, chancing to turn round, +saw a horseman riding hard after them. They drew up, and soon the man--a +Rider of the Plains--was beside them. He had stopped at Throng’s to find +Halby, and had followed them. Murder had been committed near the border, +and Halby was needed at once. Halby stood still, numb with distress, for +there was Lydia. He turned to Pierre in dismay. Pierre’s face lighted +up with the spirit of fresh adventure. Desperate enterprises roused him; +the impossible had a charm for him. + +“I will go to Fort O’Battle,” he said. “Give me another pistol.” + +“You cannot do it alone,” said Halby, hope, however, in his voice. + +“I will do it, or it will do me, voila!” Pierre replied. Halby passed +over a pistol. + +“I’ll never forget it, on my honour, if you do it,” he said. + +Pierre mounted his horse and said, as if a thought had struck him: “If I +stand for the law in this, will you stand against it some time for me?” + +Halby hesitated, then said, holding out his hand, “Yes, if it’s nothing +dirty.” + +Pierre smiled. “Clean tit for clean tat,” he said, touching Halby’s +fingers, and then, with a gesture and an au revoir, put his horse to the +canter, and soon a surf of snow was rising at two points on the prairie, +as the Law trailed south and east. + +That night Pierre camped in the Jim-a-long-Jo, finding there firewood in +plenty, and Tophet was made comfortable in the lean-to. Within another +thirty hours he was hid in the woods behind Fort O’Battle, having +travelled nearly all night. He saw the dawn break and the beginning of +sunrise as he watched the Fort, growing every moment colder, while his +horse trembled and whinnied softly, suffering also. At last he gave a +little grunt of satisfaction, for he saw two men come out of the Fort +and go to the corral. He hesitated a minute longer, then said: “I’ll not +wait,” patted his horse’s neck, pulled the blanket closer round him, and +started for the Fort. He entered the yard--it was empty. He went to the +door of the Fort, opened it, entered, shut it, locked it softly, and put +the key in his pocket. Then he passed through into a room at the end of +the small hallway. Three men rose from seats by the fire as he did so, +and one said: “Hullo, who’re you?” Another added: “It’s Pretty Pierre.” + +Pierre looked at the table laid for breakfast, and said: “Where’s Lydia +Throng?” + +The elder of the three brothers replied: “There’s no Lydia Throng here. +There’s Lydia Bontoff, though, and in another week she’ll be Lydia +something else.” + +“What does she say about it herself?” + +“You’ve no call to know.” + +“You stole her, forced her from Throng’s-her father’s house.” + +“She wasn’t Throng’s; she was a Bontoff--sister of us. + +“Well, she says Throng, and Throng it’s got to be.” + +“What have you got to say about it?” + +At that moment Lydia appeared at the door leading from the kitchen. + +“Whatever she has to say,” answered Pierre. + +“Who’re you talking for?” + +“For her, for Throng, for the law.” + +“The law--by gosh, that’s good! You, you darned gambler; you scum!” said +Caleb, the brother who knew him. + +Pierre showed all the intelligent, resolute coolness of a trained +officer of the law. He heard a little cry behind him, and stepping +sideways, and yet not turning his back on the men, he saw Lydia. + +“Pierre! Pierre!” she said in a half-frightened way, yet with a sort of +pleasure lighting up her face; and she stepped forward to him. One of +the brothers was about to pull her away, but Pierre whipped out his +commission. “Wait,” he said. “That’s enough. I’m for the law; I belong +to the mounted police. I have come for the girl you stole.” + +The elder brother snatched the paper and read. Then he laughed loud and +long. “So you’ve come to fetch her away,” he said, “and this is how you +do it!”--he shook the paper. “Well, by--” Suddenly he stopped. “Come,” + he said, “have a drink, and don’t be a dam’ fool. She’s our sister,--old +Throng stole her, and she’s goin’ to marry our partner. Here, Caleb, +fish out the brandy-wine,” he added to his younger brother, who went to +a cupboard and brought the bottle. + +Pierre, waving the liquor away, said quietly to the girl: “You wish +to go back to your father, to Jimmy Throng?” He then gave her Throng’s +message, and added: “He sits there rocking in the big chair and +coughing--coughing! And then there’s the picture on the wall upstairs +and the little ivory brush--” + +She put out her hands towards him. “I hate them all here,” she said. “I +never knew them. They forced me away. I have no father but Jimmy Throng. +I will not stay,” she flashed out in sudden anger to the others; “I’ll +kill myself and all of you before I marry that Borotte.” + +Pierre could hear a man tramping about upstairs. Caleb knocked on +the stove-pipe, and called to him to come down. Pierre guessed it was +Borotte. This would add one more factor to the game. He must move at +once. He suddenly slipped a pistol into the girl’s hand, and with a +quick word to her, stepped towards the door. The elder brother sprang +between--which was what he looked for. By this time every man had a +weapon showing, snatched from wall and shelf. + +Pierre was cool. He said: “Remember, I am for the law. I am not one man. +You are thieves now; if you fight and kill, you will get the rope, every +one. Move from the door, or I’ll fire. The girl comes with me.” He had +heard a door open behind him, now there was an oath and a report, and a +bullet grazed his cheek and lodged in the wall beyond. He dared not turn +round, for the other men were facing him. He did not move, but the girl +did. “Coward!” she said, and raised her pistol at Borotte, standing with +her back against Pierre’s. + +There was a pause, in which no one stirred, and then the girl, slowly +walking up to Borotte, her pistol levelled, said: “You low coward--to +shoot a man from behind; and you want to be a decent girl’s husband! +These men that say they’re my brothers are brutes, but you’re a sneak. +If you stir a step I’ll fire.” + +The cowardice of Borotte was almost ridiculous. He dared not harm the +girl, and her brothers could not prevent her harming him. Here there +came a knocking at the front door. The other brothers had come, and +found it locked. Pierre saw the crisis, and acted instantly. “The girl +and I--we will fight you to the end,” he said, “and then what’s left of +you the law will fight to the end. Come,” he added, “the old man can’t +live a week. When he’s gone then you can try again. She will have what +he owns. Quick, or I arrest you all, and then--” + +“Let her go,” said Borotte; “it ain’t no use.” Presently the elder +brother broke out laughing. “Damned if I thought the girl had the pluck, +an’ damned if I thought Borotte was a crawler. Put an eye out of him, +Liddy, an’ come to your brother’s arms. Here,” he added to the others, +“up with your popguns; this shindy’s off; and the girl goes back till +the old man tucks up. Have a drink,” he added to Pierre, as he stood his +rifle in a corner and came to the table. + +In half an hour Pierre and the girl were on their way, leaving Borotte +quarrelling with the brothers, and all drinking heavily. The two arrived +at Throng’s late the next afternoon. There had been a slight thaw during +the day, and the air was almost soft, water dripping from the eaves down +the long icicles. + +When Lydia entered, the old man was dozing in his chair. The sound of +an axe out behind the house told where Duc was. The whisky-and-herbs +was beside the sick man’s chair, and his feet were wrapped about with +bearskins. The girl made a little gesture of pain, and then stepped +softly over and, kneeling, looked into Throng’s face. The lips were +moving. + +“Dad,” she said, “are you asleep?” + +“I be a durn fool, I be,” he said in a whisper, and then he began to +cough. She took his’ hands. They were cold, and she rubbed them softly. +“I feel so a’mighty holler,” he said, gasping, “an’ that bread’s sour +agin.” He shook his head pitifully. + +His eyes at last settled on her, and he recognised her. He broke into a +giggling laugh; the surprise was almost too much for his feeble mind and +body. His hands reached and clutched hers. “Liddy! Liddy!” he whispered, +then added peevishly, “the bread’s sour, an’ the boneset and camomile’s +no good.... Ain’t tomorrow bakin’-day?” he added. + +“Yes, dad,” she said, smoothing his hands. + +“What damned--liars--they be--Liddy! You’re my gel, ain’t ye?” + +“Yes, dad. I’ll make some boneset liquor now.” + +“Yes, yes,” he said, with childish eagerness and a weak, wild smile. + +“That’s it--that’s it.” + +She was about to rise, but he caught her shoulder. “I bin a good dad to +ye, hain’t I, Liddy?” he whispered. + +“Always.” + +“Never had no ma but Manette, did ye?” + +“Never, dad.” + +“What danged liars they be!” he said, chuckling. She kissed him, and +moved away to the fire to pour hot water and whisky on the herbs. + +His eyes followed her proudly, shining like wet glass in the sun. He +laughed--such a wheezing, soundless laugh! + +“He! he! he! I ain’t no--durn--fool--bless--the Lord!” he said. + +Then the shining look in his eyes became a grey film, and the girl +turned round suddenly, for the long, wheezy breathing had stopped. She +ran to him, and, lifting up his head, saw the look that makes even the +fool seem wise in his cold stillness. Then she sat down on the floor, +laid her head against the arm of his chair, and wept. + +It was very quiet inside. From without there came the twang of an axe, +and a man’s voice talking to his horse. When the man came in, he lifted +the girl up, and, to comfort her, bade her go look at a picture hanging +in her little room. After she was gone he lifted the body, put it on a +couch, and cared for it. + + + + +THE PLUNDERER + +It was no use: men might come and go before her, but Kitty Cline had +eyes for only one man. Pierre made no show of liking her, and thought, +at first, that hers was a passing fancy. He soon saw differently. There +was that look in her eyes which burns conviction as deep as the furnace +from which it comes: the hot, shy, hungering look of desire; most +childlike, painfully infinite. He would rather have faced the cold mouth +of a pistol; for he felt how it would end. He might be beyond wish to +play the lover, but he knew that every man can endure being loved. He +also knew that some are possessed--a dream, a spell, what you will--for +their life long. Kitty Cline was one of these. + +He thought he must go away, but he did not. From the hour he decided to +stay misfortune began. Willie Haslam, the clerk at the Company’s Post, +had learned a trick or two at cards in the east, and imagined that +he could, as he said himself, “roast the cock o’ the roost”--meaning +Pierre. He did so for one or two evenings, and then Pierre had a sudden +increase of luck (or design), and the lad, seeing no chance of redeeming +the I O U, representing two years’ salary, went down to the house where +Kitty Cline lived, and shot himself on the door-step. + +He had had the misfortune to prefer Kitty to the other girls at Guidon +Hill--though Nellie Sanger would have been as much to him, if Kitty had +been easier to win. The two things together told hard against Pierre. +Before, he might have gone; in the face of difficulty he certainly would +not go. Willie Haslam’s funeral was a public function: he was young, +innocent-looking, handsome, and the people did not know what Pierre +would not tell now--that he had cheated grossly at cards. Pierre was +sure, before Liddall, the surveyor, told him, that a movement was apace +to give him trouble--possibly fatal. + +“You had better go,” said Liddall. “There’s no use tempting Providence.” + +“They are tempting the devil,” was the cool reply; “and that is not all +joy, as you shall see.” + +He stayed. For a time there was no demonstration on either side. He +came and went through the streets, and was found at his usual haunts, to +observers as cool and nonchalant as ever. He was a changed man, however. +He never got away from the look in Kitty Cline’s eyes. He felt the thing +wearing on him, and he hesitated to speculate on the result; but he +knew vaguely that it would end in disaster. There is a kind of corrosion +which eats the granite out of the blood, and leaves fever. + +“What is the worst thing that can happen a man, eh?” he said to Liddall +one day, after having spent a few minutes with Kitty Cline. + +Liddall was an honest man. He knew the world tolerably well. In +writing once to his partner in Montreal he had spoken of Pierre as “an +admirable, interesting scoundrel.” Once when Pierre called him “mon +ami,” and asked him to come and spend an evening in his cottage, he +said: + +“Yes, I will go. But--pardon me--not as your friend. Let us be plain +with each other. I never met a man of your stamp before--” + +“A professional gambler--yes? Bien?” + +“You interest me; I like you; you have great cleverness--” + +“A priest once told me I had a great brain-there is a difference. Well?” + +“You are like no man I ever met before. Yours is a life like none I +ever knew. I would rather talk with you than with any other man in the +country, and yet--” + +“And yet you would not take me to your home? That is all right. I expect +nothing. I accept the terms. I know what I am and what you are. I like +men who are square. You would go out of your way to do me a good turn.” + +It was on his tongue to speak of Katy Cline, but he hesitated: it was +not fair to the girl, he thought, though what he had intended was for +her good. He felt he had no right to assume that Liddall knew how things +were. The occasion slipped by. + +But the same matter had been in his mind when, later, he asked, “What is +the worst thing that can happen to a man?” + +Liddall looked at him long, and then said: “To stand between two fires.” + +Pierre smiled: it was an answer after his own heart. Liddall remembered +it very well in the future. + +“What is the thing to do in such a case?” Pierre asked. + +“It is not good to stand still.” + +“But what if you are stunned, or do not care?” + +“You should care. It is not wise to strain a situation.” + +Pierre rose, walked up and down the room once or twice, then stood +still, his arms folded, and spoke in a low tone. “Once in the Rockies I +was lost. I crept into a cave at night. I knew it was the nest of some +wild animal; but I was nearly dead with hunger and fatigue. I fell +asleep. When I woke--it was towards morning--I saw two yellow stars +glaring where the mouth of the cave had been. They were all hate: like +nothing you could imagine: passion as it is first made--yes. There was +also a rumbling sound. It was terrible, and yet I was not scared. Hate +need not disturb you.--I am a quick shot. I killed that mountain lion, +and I ate the haunch of deer I dragged from under her....” + +He turned now, and, facing the doorway, looked out upon the village, to +the roof of a house which they both knew. “Hate,” he said, “is not the +most wonderful thing. I saw a woman look once as though she could lose +the whole world--and her own soul. She was a good woman. The man was +bad--most: he never could be anything else. A look like that breaks the +nerve. It is not amusing. In time the man goes to pieces. But before +that comes he is apt to do strange things. Eh-so!” + +He sat down, and, with his finger, wrote musingly in the dust upon the +table. + +Liddall looked keenly at him, and replied more brusquely than he felt: +“Do you think it fair to stay--fair to her?” + +“What if I should take her with me?” Pierre flashed a keen, searching +look after the words. + +“It would be useless devilry.” + +“Let us drink,” said Pierre, as he came to his feet quickly: “then for +the House of Lords” (the new and fashionable tavern). + +They separated in the street, and Pierre went to the House of Lords +alone. He found a number of men gathered before a paper pasted on a +pillar of the veranda. Hearing his own name, he came nearer. A ranch man +was reading aloud an article from a newspaper printed two hundred miles +away. The article was headed, “A Villainous Plunderer.” It had been +written by someone at Guidon Hill. All that was discreditable in +Pierre’s life it set forth with rude clearness; he was credited with +nothing pardonable. In the crowd there were mutterings unmistakable to +Pierre. He suddenly came among them, caught a revolver from his pocket, +and shot over the reader’s shoulder six times into the pasted strip of +newspaper. + +The men dropped back. They were not prepared for warlike measures at +the moment. Pierre leaned his back against the pillar and waited. His +silence and coolness, together with an iron fierceness in his face, held +them from instant demonstration against him; but he knew that he must +face active peril soon. He pocketed his revolver and went up the hill +to the house of Kitty Cline’s mother. It was the first time he had ever +been there. At the door he hesitated, but knocked presently, and was +admitted by Kitty, who, at sight of him, turned faint with sudden joy, +and grasped the lintel to steady herself. + +Pierre quietly caught her about the waist, and shut the door. She +recovered, and gently disengaged herself. He made no further advance, +and they stood looking at each other for a minute: he, as one who had +come to look at something good he was never to see again; she, as at +something she hoped to see for ever. They had never before been where no +eyes could observe them. He ruled his voice to calmness. + +“I am going away,” he said, “and I have come to say good-bye.” + +Her eyes never wavered from his. Her voice was scarce above a whisper. + +“Why do you go? Where are you going?” + +“I have been here too long. I am what they call a villain and a +plunderer. I am going to-mon Dieu, I do not know!” He shrugged his +shoulders, and smiled with a sort of helpless disdain. + +She leaned her hands on the table before her. Her voice was still that +low, clear murmur. + +“What people say doesn’t matter.” She staked her all upon her words. +She must speak them, though she might hate herself afterwards. “Are you +going--alone?” + +“Where I may have to go I must travel alone.” + +He could not meet her eyes now; he turned his head away. He almost hoped +she would not understand. “Sit down,” he added; “I want to tell you of +my life.” + +He believed that telling it as he should, she would be horror-stricken, +and that the deep flame would die out of her eyes. Neither he nor she +knew how long they sat there, he telling with grim precision of the life +he had led. Her hands were clasped before her, and she shuddered once or +twice, so that he paused; but she asked him firmly to go on. + +When all was told he stood up. He could not see her face, but he heard +her say: + +“You have forgotten many things that were not bad. Let me say them.” + She named things that would have done honour to a better man. He was +standing in the moonlight that came through the window. She stepped +forward, her hands quivering out to him. “Oh, Pierre,” she said, “I know +why you tell me this: but it makes no difference-none! I will go with +you wherever you go.” + +He caught her hands in his. She was stronger than he was now. Her eyes +mastered him. A low cry broke from him, and he drew her almost fiercely +into his arms. + +“Pierre! Pierre!” was all she could say. + +He kissed her again and again upon the mouth. As he did so, he heard +footsteps and muffled voices without. Putting her quickly from him, he +sprang towards the door, threw it open, closed it behind him, and drew +his revolvers. A half-dozen men faced him. Two bullets whistled by his +head, and lodged in the door. Then he fired swiftly, shot after shot, +and three men fell. His revolvers were empty. There were three men left. +The case seemed all against him now, but just here a shot, and then +another, came from the window, and a fourth man fell. Pierre sprang upon +one, the other turned and ran. There was a short sharp struggle: then +Pierre rose up--alone. + +The girl stood in the doorway. “Come, my dear,” he said, “you must go +with me now.” + +“Yes, Pierre,” she cried, a mad light in her face, “I have killed men +too--for you.” + +Together they ran down the hillside, and made for the stables of the +Fort. People were hurrying through the long street of the town, and +torches were burning, but they came by a roundabout to the stables +safely. Pierre was about to enter, when a man came out. It was Liddall. +He kept his horses there, and he had saddled one, thinking that Pierre +might need it. + +There were quick words of explanation, and then, “Must the girl go too?” + he asked. “It will increase the danger--besides--” + +“I am going wherever he goes,” she interrupted hoarsely. “I have killed +men; he and I are the same now.” + +Without a word Liddall turned back, threw a saddle on another horse, and +led it out quickly. “Which way?” he asked; “and where shall I find the +horses?” + +“West to the mountains. The horses you will find at Tete Blanche Hill, +if we get there. If not, there is money under the white pine at my +cottage. Goodbye!” + +They galloped away. But there were mounted men in the main street, and +one, well ahead of the others, was making towards the bridge over +which they must pass. He reached it before they did, and set his horse +crosswise in its narrow entrance. Pierre urged his mare in front of the +girl’s, and drove straight at the head and shoulders of the obstructing +horse. His was the heavier animal, and it bore the other down. The rider +fired as he fell, but missed, and, in an instant, Pierre and the girl +were over. The fallen man fired the second time, but again missed. They +had a fair start, but the open prairie was ahead of them, and there was +no chance to hide. Riding must do all, for their pursuers were in full +cry. For an hour they rode hard. They could see their hunters not very +far in the rear. Suddenly Pierre started and sniffed the air. + +“The prairie’s on fire,” he said exultingly, defiantly. Almost as he +spoke, clouds ran down the horizon, and then the sky lighted up. The +fire travelled with incredible swiftness: they were hastening to meet +it. It came on wave-like, hurrying down at the right and the left as +if to close in on them. The girl spoke no word; she had no fear: what +Pierre did she would do. He turned round to see his pursuers: they had +wheeled and were galloping back the way they came. His horse and hers +were travelling neck and neck. He looked at her with an intense, eager +gaze. + +“Will you ride on?” he asked eagerly. “We are between two fires.” He +smiled, remembering his words to Liddall. + +“Ride on,” she urged in a strong, clear voice, a kind of wild triumph in +it. “You shall not go alone.” + +There ran into his eyes now the same infinite look that had been in +hers--that had conquered him. The flame rolling towards them was not +brighter or hotter. + +“For heaven or hell, my girl!” he cried, and they drove their horses +on--on. + +Far behind upon a Divide the flying hunters from Guidon Hill paused for +a moment. They saw with hushed wonder and awe a man and woman, dark +and weird against the red light, ride madly into the flickering surf of +fire. + + + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + A human life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of time + Advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth + All humour in him had a strain of the sardonic + Bad turns good sometimes, when you know the how + Don’t be too honest + Every shot that kills ricochets + Fear of one’s own wife is the worst fear in the world + Have you ever felt the hand of your own child in yours + He never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it + How can you judge the facts if you don’t know the feeling? + In her heart she never can defy the world as does a man + Liars all men may be, but that’s wid wimmin or landlords + Memory is man’s greatest friend and worst enemy + Men are like dogs--they worship him who beats them + Not good to have one thing in the head all the time + Put the matter on your own hearthstone + Remember the sorrow of thine own wife + Secret of life: to keep your own commandments + She valued what others found useless + She had not suffered that sickness, social artifice + Solitude fixes our hearts immovably on things + Some people are rough with the poor--and proud + Some wise men are fools, one way or another + They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly + Think with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman + When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil + Women are half saints, half fools + Youth hungers for the vanities + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Romany of the Snows, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMANY OF THE SNOWS *** + +***** This file should be named 6185-0.txt or 6185-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/8/6185/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/6185-0.zip b/6185-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..d65c90f --- /dev/null +++ b/6185-0.zip diff --git a/6185-h.zip b/6185-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0bf1625 --- /dev/null +++ b/6185-h.zip diff --git a/6185-h/6185-h.htm b/6185-h/6185-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b1ed12c --- /dev/null +++ b/6185-h/6185-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12369 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + A Romany of the Snows, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd7; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Romany of the Snows, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Romany of the Snows + Being A Continuation Of The Personal Histories Of "Pierre And His + People" And The Last Existing Records Of Pretty Pierre + + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: November 17, 2006 [EBook #6185] +Last Updated: August 26, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMANY OF THE SNOWS *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <h1> + A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + </h1> + <h3> + BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF “PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE” + AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Gilbert Parker + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE. + + MY DEAR SIR WILLIAM, + + To the public it will seem fitting that these new tales of “Pierre + and His People” should be inscribed to one whose notable career is + inseparably associated with the life and development of the Far + North. + + But there is a deeper and more personal significance in this + dedication, for some of the stories were begotten in late gossip by + your fireside; and furthermore, my little book is given a kind of + distinction, in having on its fore-page the name of one well known + as a connoisseur of art and a lover of literature. + + Believe me, + + DEAR SIR WILLIAM, + + Sincerely yours, + + GILBERT PARKER. + + 7 PARK PLACE. + ST. JAMES’S. + LONDON. S. W. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> A LOVELY BULLY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE FILIBUSTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> MALACHI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THE RED PATROL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> AT BAMBER’S BOOM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE BRIDGE HOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> THE EPAULETTES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE FINDING OF FINGALL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> LITTLE BABICHE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> AT POINT O’ BUGLES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE CRUISE OF THE “NINETY-NINE” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> ROMANY OF THE SNOWS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE PLUNDERER </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + It can hardly be said that there were two series of Pierre stories. There + never was but one series, in fact. Pierre moved through all the + thirty-nine stories of Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows + without any thought on my part of putting him out of existence in one + series and bringing him to life again in another. The publication of the + stories was continuous, and at the time that Pierre and His People + appeared several of those which came between the covers of A Romany of the + Snows were passing through the pages of magazines in England and America. + All of the thirty-nine stories might have appeared in one volume under the + title of Pierre and His People, but they were published in two volumes + with different titles in England, and in three volumes in America, simply + because there was enough material for the two and the three volumes. In + America The Adventurer of the North was broken up into two volumes at the + urgent request of my then publishers, Messrs. Stone & Kimball, who had + the gift of producing beautiful books, but perhaps had not the same gift + of business. These two American volumes succeeding Pierre were published + under the title of An Adventurer of the North and A Romany of the Snows + respectively. Now, the latter title, A Romany of the Snows, was that which + I originally chose for the volume published in England as An Adventurer of + the North. I was persuaded to reject the title, A Romany of the Snows, by + my English publisher, and I have never forgiven myself since for being so + weak. If a publisher had the infallible instinct for these things he would + not be a publisher—he would be an author; and though an author may + make mistakes like everybody else, the average of his hits will be far + higher than the average of his misses in such things. The title, An + Adventurer of the North, is to my mind cumbrous and rough, and difficult + in the mouth. Compare it with some of the stories within the volume + itself: for instance, The Going of the White Swan, A Lovely Bully, At + Bamber’s Boom, At Point o’ Bugles, The Pilot of Belle Amour, The Spoil of + the Puma, A Romany of the Snows, and The Finding of Fingall. There it was, + however; I made the mistake and it sticks; but the book now will be + published in this subscription edition under the title first chosen by me, + A Romany of the Snows. It really does express what Pierre was. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps some of the stories in A Romany of the Snows have not the + sentimental simplicity of some of the earlier stories in Pierre and His + People, which take hold where a deeper and better work might not seize the + general public; but, reading these later stories after twenty years, I + feel that I was moving on steadily to a larger, firmer command of my + material, and was getting at closer grips with intimate human things. + There is some proof of what I say in the fact that one of the stories in A + Romany of the Snows, called The Going of the White Swan, appropriately + enough published originally in Scribner’s Magazine, has had an + extraordinary popularity. It has been included in the programmes of + reciters from the Murrumbidgee to the Vaal, from John O’Groat’s to Land’s + End, and is now being published as a separate volume in England and + America. It has been dramatised several times, and is more alive to-day + than it was when it was published nearly twenty years ago. Almost the same + may be said of The Three Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue. + </p> + <p> + It has been said that, apart from the colour, form, and setting, the + incidents of these Pierre stories might have occurred anywhere. That is + true beyond a doubt, and it exactly represents my attitude of mind. Every + human passion, every incident springing out of a human passion to-day, had + its counterpart in the time of Amenhotep. The only difference is in the + setting, is in the language or dialect which is the vehicle of expression, + and in race and character, which are the media of human idiosyncrasy. + There is nothing new in anything that one may write, except the outer and + visible variation of race, character, and country, which reincarnates the + everlasting human ego and its scena. + </p> + <p> + The atmosphere of a story or novel is what temperament is to a man. + Atmosphere cannot be created; it is not a matter of skill; it is a matter + of personality, of the power of visualisation, of feeling for the thing + which the mind sees. It has been said that my books possess atmosphere. + This has often been said when criticism has been more or less acute upon + other things; but I think that in all my experience there has never been a + critic who has not credited my books with that quality; and I should say + that Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows have an atmosphere in + which the beings who make the stories live seem natural to their + environment. It is this quality which gives vitality to the characters + themselves. Had I not been able to create atmosphere which would have + given naturalness to Pierre and his friends, some of the characters, and + many of the incidents, would have seemed monstrosities—melodramatic + episodes merely. The truth is, that while the episode, which is the first + essential of a short story, was always in the very forefront of my + imagination, the character or characters in the episode meant infinitely + more to me. To my mind the episode was always the consequence of + character. That almost seems a paradox; but apart from the phenomena of + nature, as possible incidents in a book, the episodes which make what are + called “human situations” are, in most instances, the sequence of + character and are incidental to the law of the character set in motion. As + I realise it now, subconsciously, my mind and imagination were controlled + by this point of view in the days of the writing of Pierre and His People. + </p> + <p> + In the life and adventures of Pierre and his people I came, as I think, to + a certain command of my material, without losing real sympathy with the + simple nature of things. Dexterity has its dangers, and one of its dangers + is artificiality. It is very difficult to be skilful and to ring true. If + I have not wholly succeeded in A Romany of the Snows, I think I have not + wholly failed, as the continued appeal of a few of the stories would seem + to show. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS + </h2> + <p> + “Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands I’ve seen along the sayshore, + and up to me half-ways I’ve been in wan, wid a double-and-twist in the + rope to pull me out; but a suckin’ sand in the open plain—aw, + Trader, aw! the like o’ that niver a bit saw I.” + </p> + <p> + So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing was talked of in his presence. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I tell you it’s true, and they’re not three miles from Fort + O’Glory. The Company’s—[Hudson’s Bay Company]—men don’t talk + about it—what’s the use! Travellers are few that way, and you can’t + get the Indians within miles of them. Pretty Pierre knows all about them—better + than anyone else almost. He’ll stand by me in it—eh, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adventurer, took no notice, and was + silent for a time, intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mowley the + trapper said: “Pierre’s gone back on you, Trader. P’r’aps ye haven’t paid + him for the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me—my treat—that’s + the game!” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, the like o’ that,” added Macavoy reproachfully. “Aw, yer tongue to + the roof o’ yer mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but that’s wid wimmin + or landlords. But, Pierre, aff another man’s bat like that—aw, + Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o’ yer pipe.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he did + so; but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting the three + pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment musingly; then + he lit his cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench where he sat, he + began to speak, talking into the fire as it were. + </p> + <p> + “I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company’s post there. It was the fall of the + year, when you feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the air + drinks like wine. You think that sounds like a woman or a priest? Mais, + no. The seasons are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad; in the fall + I am gay, I am for the big things to do. This matter was in the fall. I + felt that I must move. Yet, what to do? There was the thing. Cards, of + course. But that’s only for times, not for all seasons. So I was like a + wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse—Tophet, black as a coal, all + raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. His legs worked like + piston-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where to go or what to do. So + we used to sit at the Post loafing: in the daytime watching the empty + plains all panting for travellers, like a young bride waiting her husband + for the first time.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an unctuous spirit, and his + heart was soft for women—so soft that he never had had one on his + conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many. But + that was an amiable weakness in a strong man. “Aw, Pierre,” he said + coaxingly, “kape it down; aisy, aisy. Me heart’s goin’ like a trip-hammer + at thought av it; aw yis, aw yis, Pierre.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it was like that to me—all sun and a sweet sting in the air. + At night to sit and tell tales and such things; and perhaps a little brown + brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the cattle—the same + old game. Of course, there was the wife of Hilton the factor—fine, + always fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good friends, Ida and me. I + had a hand in her wedding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little girl. We + could talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she had never guessed + at evil. She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and understand without + words. A face was a book to her. + </p> + <p> + “Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing outside the Post, when we saw + someone ride over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes. I cannot tell + quite how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut against the + sky, that they looked very large and peculiar—there was something in + the air to magnify. They stopped for a minute on the top of the Divide, + and it seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at the farthest + north—the place of legends. But, of course, it was only a traveller + like ourselves, for in a half-hour she was with us. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not try to hide it; she + dressed so for ease. She would make a man’s heart leap in his mouth—if + he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley there.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre’s last three words had a touch of irony, for he knew that the + Trapper had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed that + way, and a bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled sourly; but + Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his pipe-stem + luxuriously. + </p> + <p> + “Aw now, Pierre—all me little failin’s—aw!” he protested. + </p> + <p> + Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and, + cherishing his cigarette, presently continued: + </p> + <p> + “She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff that she could hardly + get from her horse; and the horse too was ready to drop. Handsome enough + she looked, for all that, in man’s clothes and a peaked cap, with a pistol + in her belt. She wasn’t big built—just a feathery kind of sapling—but + she was set fair on her legs like a man, and a hand that was as good as I + have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with a horse. Well, what was + the trouble?—for I saw there was trouble. Her eyes had a hunted + look, and her nose breathed like a deer’s in the chase. All at once, when + she saw Hilton’s wife, a cry came from her and she reached out her hands. + What would women of that sort do? They were both of a kind. They got into + each other’s arms. After that there was nothing for us men but to wait. + All women are the same, and Hilton’s wife was like the rest. She must get + the secret first; then the men should know. We had to wait an hour. Then + Hilton’s wife beckoned to us. We went inside. The girl was asleep. There + was something in the touch of Hilton’s wife like sleep itself—like + music. It was her voice—that touch. She could not speak with her + tongue, but her hands and face were words and music. Bien, there was the + girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain; and that fine hand it lay loose + on her breast, so quiet, so quiet. Enfin, the real story—for how she + slept there does not matter—but it was good to see when we knew the + story.” + </p> + <p> + The Trapper was laughing silently to himself to hear Pierre in this + romantic mood. A woman’s hand—it was the game for a boy, not an + adventurer; for the Trapper’s only creed was that women, like deer, were + spoils for the hunter. Pierre’s keen eye noted this, but he was above + petty anger. He merely said: “If a man have an eye to see behind the face, + he understands the foolish laugh of a man, or the hand of a good woman, + and that is much. Hilton’s wife told us all. She had rode two hundred + miles from the south-west, and was making for Fort Micah, sixty miles + farther north. For what? She had loved a man against the will of her + people. There had been a feud, and Garrison—that was the lover’s + name—was the last on his own side. There was trouble at a Company’s + post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. Men say he was right to shoot him, + for a woman’s name must be safe up here. Besides, the half-breed drew + first. Well, Garrison was tried, and must go to jail for a year. At the + end of that time he would be free. The girl Janie knew the day. Word had + come to her. She made everything ready. She knew her brothers were + watching—her three brothers and two other men who had tried to get + her love. She knew also that they five would carry on the feud against the + one man. So one night she took the best horse on the ranch and started + away towards Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she got to Guidon Hill after + two days’ hard riding—enough to kill a man, and over fifty yet to + do. She was sure her brothers were on her track. But if she could get to + Fort Micah, and be married to Garrison before they came; she wanted no + more. + </p> + <p> + “There were only two horses of use at Hilton’s Post then; all the rest + were away, or not fit for hard travel. There was my Tophet, and a lean + chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and not an ounce of loose skin on + him. There was but one way: the girl must get there. Allons, what is the + good? What is life without these things? The girl loves the man: she must + have him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and his wife and me at the + Post, and Hilton was lame from a fall, and one arm in a sling. If the + brothers followed, well, Hilton could not interfere—he was a + Company’s man; but for myself, as I said, I was hungry for adventure, I + had an ache in my blood for something. I was tingling to the toes, my + heart was thumping in my throat. All the cords of my legs were + straightening as if I was in the saddle. + </p> + <p> + “She slept for three hours. I got the two horses saddled. Who could tell + but she might need help? I had nothing to do; I knew the shortest way to + Fort Micah, every foot—and then it is good to be ready for all + things. I told Hilton’s wife what I had done. She was glad. She made a + gesture at me as to a brother, and then began to put things in a bag for + us to carry. She had settled all how it was to be. She had told the girl. + You see, a man may be—what is it they call me?—a plunderer, + and yet a woman will trust him, comme ca!” + </p> + <p> + “Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre; but she knew yer hand and yer tongue niver wint + agin a woman, Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw swate, swate, she was, wid a + heart—a heart, Hilton’s wife, aw yis!” + </p> + <p> + Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. “The girl waked after three hours with + a start. Her hand caught at her heart. ‘Oh,’ she said, still staring at + us, ‘I thought that they had come!’ A little after she and Hilton’s wife + went to another room. All at once there was a sound of horses outside, and + then a knock at the door, and four men come in. They were the girl’s + hunters. + </p> + <p> + “It was hard to tell what to do all in a minute; but I saw at once the + best thing was to act for all, and to get all the men inside the house. So + I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that I was a great man in the + Company. I ordered Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not giving + the men time to speak, I fetched out the old brown brandy, wondering all + the time what could be done. There was no sound from the other room, + though I thought I heard a door open once. Hilton played the game well, + and showed nothing when I ordered him about, and agreed word for word with + me when I said no girl had come, laughing when they told why they were + after her. More than one of them did not believe at first; but, pshaw, + what have I been doing all my life to let such fellows doubt me? So the + end of it was that I got them all inside the house. There was one bad + thing—their horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to me. They + had only rode them a few miles—they had stole or bought them at the + first ranch to the west of the Post. I could not make up my mind what to + do. But it was clear I must keep them quiet till something shaped. + </p> + <p> + “They were all drinking brandy when Hilton’s wife come into the room. Her + face was, mon Dieu! so innocent, so childlike. She stared at the men; and + then I told them she was deaf and dumb, and I told her why they had come. + Voila, it was beautiful—like nothing you ever saw. She shook her + head so innocent, and then told them like a child that they were wicked to + chase a girl. I could have kissed her feet. Thunder, how she fooled them! + She said, would they not search the house? She said all through me, on her + fingers and by signs. And I told them at once. But she told me something + else—that the girl had slipped out as the last man came in, had + mounted the chestnut, and would wait for me by the iron spring, a quarter + of a mile away. There was the danger that some one of the men knew the + finger-talk, so she told me this in signs mixed up with other sentences. + </p> + <p> + “Good! There was now but one thing—for me to get away. So I said, + laughing, to one of the men. ‘Come, and we will look after the horses, and + the others can search the place with Hilton.’ So we went out to where the + horses were tied to the railing, and led them away to the corral. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you will understand how I did it. I clapped a hand on his + mouth, put a pistol at his head, and gagged and tied him. Then I got my + Tophet, and away I went to the spring. The girl was waiting. There were + few words. I gripped her hand, gave her another pistol, and then we got + away on a fine moonlit trail. We had not gone a mile when I heard a faint + yell far behind. My game had been found out. There was nothing to do but + to ride for it now, and maybe to fight. But fighting was not good; for I + might be killed, and then the girl would be caught just the same. We rode + on—such a ride, the horses neck and neck, their hoofs pounding the + prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, a hell-to-split gait. I knew they + were after us, though I saw them but once on the crest of a Divide about + three miles behind. Hour after hour like that, with ten minutes’ rest now + and then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We hardly spoke to each + other; but, nom de Dieu! my heart was warm to this girl who had rode a + hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours. Just before dawn, when I was + beginning to think that we should easy win the race if the girl could but + hold out, if it did not kill her, the chestnut struck a leg into the crack + of the prairie, and horse and girl spilt on the ground together. She could + hardly move, she was so weak, and her face was like death. I put a pistol + to the chestnut’s head, and ended it. The girl stooped and kissed the poor + beast’s neck, but spoke nothing. As I helped her on my Tophet I put my + lips to the sleeve of her dress. Mother of Heaven! what could a man do—she + was so dam’ brave. + </p> + <p> + “Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at the swell of the prairie over the + Jumping Sandhills. They lay quiet and shining in the green-brown plain; + but I knew that there was a churn beneath which could set those swells of + sand in motion, and make glory-to-God of an army. Who can tell what it is? + A flood under the surface, a tidal river-what? No man knows. But they are + sea monsters on the land. Every morning at sunrise they begin to eddy and + roll—and who ever saw a stranger sight? Bien, I looked back. There + were those four pirates coming on, about three miles away. What was there + to do? The girl and myself on my blown horse were too much. Then a great + idea come to me. I must reach and cross the Jumping Sandhills before + sunrise. It was one deadly chance. + </p> + <p> + “When we got to the edge of the sand they were almost a mile behind. I was + all sick to my teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the silt. Sacre, how I + watched the dawn! Slow, slow, we dragged over that velvet powder. As we + reached the farther side I could feel it was beginning to move. The sun + was showing like the lid of an eye along the plain. I looked back. All + four horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards us. By the time we + touched the brown-green prairie on the farther side the sand was rolling + behind us. The girl had not looked back. She seemed too dazed. I jumped + from the horse, and told her that she must push on alone to the Fort, that + Tophet could not carry both, that I should be in no danger. She looked at + me so deep—ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped and kissed me between + the eyes—I have never forgot. I struck Tophet, and she was gone to + her happiness; for before ‘lights out!’ she reached the Fort and her + lover’s arms. + </p> + <p> + “But I stood looking back on the Jumping Sandhills. So, was there ever a + sight like that—those hills gone like a smelting-floor, the sunrise + spotting it with rose and yellow, and three horses and their riders + fighting what cannot be fought?—What could I do? They would have got + the girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led them across, and they + would have killed me if they could. Only one cried out, and then but once, + in a long shriek. But after, all three were quiet as they fought, until + they were gone where no man could see, where none cries out so we can + hear. The last thing I saw was a hand stretching up out of the sands.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause, painful to bear. The Trader sat with eyes fixed + humbly as a dog’s on Pierre. At last Macavoy said: “She kissed ye, Pierre, + aw yis, she did that! Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her now, + Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LOVELY BULLY + </h2> + <p> + He was seven feet and fat. He came to Fort O’Angel at Hudson’s Bay, an + immense slip of a lad, very much in the way, fond of horses, a wonderful + hand at wrestling, pretending a horrible temper, threatening tragedies for + all who differed from him, making the Fort quake with his rich roar, and + playing the game of bully with a fine simplicity. In winter he fattened, + in summer he sweated, at all times he ate eloquently. + </p> + <p> + It was a picture to see him with the undercut of a haunch of deer or + buffalo, or with a whole prairie-fowl on his plate, his eyes measuring it + shrewdly, his coat and waistcoat open, and a clear space about him—for + he needed room to stretch his mighty limbs, and his necessity was + recognised by all. + </p> + <p> + Occasionally he pretended to great ferocity, but scowl he ever so much, a + laugh kept idling in his irregular bushy beard, which lifted about his + face in the wind like a mane, or made a kind of underbrush through which + his blunt fingers ran at hide-and-seek. + </p> + <p> + He was Irish, and his name was Macavoy. In later days, when Fort O’Angel + was invaded by settlers, he had his time of greatest importance. + </p> + <p> + He had been useful to the Chief Trader at the Fort in the early days, and + having the run of the Fort and the reach of his knife, was little likely + to discontinue his adherence. But he ate and drank with all the dwellers + at the Post, and abused all impartially. “Malcolm,” said he to the Trader, + “Malcolm, me glutton o’ the H.B.C., that wants the Far North for your + footstool—Malcolm, you villain, it’s me grief that I know you, and + me thumb to me nose in token.” Wiley and Hatchett, the principal settlers, + he abused right and left, and said, “Wasn’t there land in the East and + West, that you steal the country God made for honest men—you robbers + o’ the wide world! Me tooth on the Book, and I tell you what, it’s only me + charity that kapes me from spoilin’ ye. For a wink of me eye, an’ away + you’d go, leaving your tails behind you—and pass that shoulder of + bear, you pirates, till I come to it sideways, like a hog to war.” + </p> + <p> + He was even less sympathetic with Bareback the chief and his braves. “Sons + o’ Anak y’are; here today and away to-morrow, like the clods of the valley—and + that’s your portion, Bareback. It’s the word o’ the Pentytook—in + pieces you go, like a potter’s vessel. Don’t shrug your shoulders at me, + Bareback, you pig, or you’ll think that Ballzeboob’s loose on the mat. But + take a sup o’ this whisky, while you swear wid your hand on your chest, + ‘Amin’ to the words o’ Tim Macavoy.” + </p> + <p> + Beside Macavoy, Pierre, the notorious, was a child in height. Up to the + time of the half-breed’s coming the Irishman had been the most outstanding + man at Fort O’Angel, and was sure of a good-natured homage, acknowledged + by him with a jovial tyranny. + </p> + <p> + Pierre put a flea in his ear. He was pensively indifferent to him even in + his most royal moments. He guessed the way to bring down the gusto and + pride of this Goliath, but, for a purpose, he took his own time, nodding + indolently to Macavoy when he met him, but avoiding talk with him. + </p> + <p> + Among the Indian maidens Macavoy was like a king or khan; for they count + much on bulk and beauty, and he answered to their standards—especially + to Wonta’s. It was a sight to see him of a summer day, sitting in the + shade of a pine, his shirt open, showing his firm brawny chest, his arms + bare, his face shining with perspiration, his big voice gurgling in his + beard, his eyes rolling amiably upon the maidens as they passed or + gathered near demurely, while he declaimed of mighty deeds in patois or + Chinook to the braves. + </p> + <p> + Pierre’s humour was of the quietest, most subterranean kind. He knew that + Macavoy had not an evil hair in his head; that vanity was his greatest + weakness, and that through him there never would have been more half-breed + population. There was a tradition that he had a wife somewhere—based + upon wild words he had once said when under the influence of bad liquor; + but he had roared his accuser the lie when the thing was imputed to him. + </p> + <p> + At Fort Ste. Anne Pierre had known an old woman, by name of Kitty Whelan, + whose character was all tatters. She had told him that many years agone + she had had a broth of a lad for a husband; but because of a sharp word or + two across the fire, and the toss of a handful of furniture, he had left + her, and she had seen no more of him. “Tall, like a chimney he was,” said + she, “and a chest like a wall, so broad, and a voice like a huntsman’s + horn, though only a b’y, an’ no hair an his face; an’ little I know + whether he is dead or alive; but dead belike, for he’s sure to come rap + agin’ somethin’ that’d kill him; for he, the darlin’, was that aisy and + gentle, he wouldn’t pull his fightin’ iron till he had death in his ribs.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre had drawn from her that the name of this man whom she had cajoled + into a marriage (being herself twenty years older), and driven to + deserting her afterwards, was Tim Macavoy. She had married Mr. Whelan on + the assumption that Macavoy was dead. But Mr. Whelan had not the nerve to + desert her, and so he departed this life, very loudly lamented by Mrs. + Whelan, who had changed her name with no right to do so. With his going + her mind dwelt greatly upon the virtues of her mighty vanished Tim: and + ill would it be for Tim if she found him. + </p> + <p> + Pierre had travelled to Fort O’Angel almost wholly because he had Tim + Macavoy in his mind: in it Mrs. Whelan had only an incidental part; his + plans journeyed beyond her and her lost consort. He was determined on an + expedition to capture Fort Comfort, which had been abandoned by the great + Company, and was now held by a great band of the Shunup Indians. + </p> + <p> + Pierre had a taste for conquest for its own sake, though he had no + personal ambition. The love of adventure was deep in him; he adored sport + for its own sake; he had had a long range of experiences—some + discreditable—and now he had determined on a new field for his + talent. + </p> + <p> + He would establish a kingdom, and resign it. In that case he must have a + man to take his place. He chose Macavoy. + </p> + <p> + First he must humble the giant to the earth, then make him into a great + man again, with a new kind of courage. The undoing of Macavoy seemed a + civic virtue. He had a long talk with Wonta, the Indian maiden most + admired by Macavoy. Many a time the Irishman had cast an ogling, rolling + eye on her, and had talked his loudest within her ear-shot, telling of + splendid things he had done: making himself like another Samson as to the + destruction of men, and a Hercules as to the slaying of cattle. + </p> + <p> + Wonta had a sense of humour also, and when Pierre told her what was + required of her, she laughed with a quick little gurgle, and showed as + handsome a set of teeth as the half-breed’s; which said much for her. She + promised to do as he wished. So it chanced when Macavoy was at his + favourite seat beneath the pine, talking to a gaping audience, Wonta and a + number of Indian girls passed by. Pierre was leaning against a door + smoking, not far away. Macavoy’s voice became louder. + </p> + <p> + “‘Stand them up wan by wan,’ says I, ‘and give me a leg loose, and a fist + free; and at that—‘” + </p> + <p> + “At that there was thunder and fire in the sky, and because the great + Macavoy blew his breath over them they withered like the leaves,” cried + Wonta, laughing; but her laugh had an edge. + </p> + <p> + Macavoy stopped short, open-mouthed, breathing hard in his great beard. He + was astonished at Wonta’s raillery; the more so when she presently snapped + her fingers, and the other maidens, laughing, did the same. Some of the + half-breeds snapped their fingers also in sympathy, and shrugged their + shoulders. Wonta came up to him softly, patted him on the head, and said: + “Like Macavoy there is nobody. He is a great brave. He is not afraid of a + coyote, he has killed prairie-hens in numbers as pebbles by the lakes. He + has a breast like a fat ox,”—here she touched the skin of his broad + chest,—“and he will die if you do not fight him.” + </p> + <p> + Then she drew back, as though in humble dread, and glided away with the + other maidens, Macavoy staring after her, with a blustering kind of shame + in his face. The half-breeds laughed, and, one by one, they got up, and + walked away also. Macavoy looked round: there was no one near save Pierre, + whose eye rested on him lazily. Macavoy got to his feet, muttering. This + was the first time in his experience at Fort O’Angel that he had been + bluffed—and by a girl; one for whom he had a very soft place in his + big heart. Pierre came slowly over to him. + </p> + <p> + “I’d have it out with her,” said he. “She called you a bully and a brag.” + </p> + <p> + “Out with her?” cried Macavoy. “How can ye have it out wid a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Fight her,” said Pierre pensively. + </p> + <p> + “Fight her? fight her? Holy smoke! How can you fight a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what—do you—fight?” asked Pierre innocently. + </p> + <p> + Macavoy grinned in a wild kind of fashion. “Faith, then, y’are a fool. + Bring on the divil an’ all his angels, say I, and I’ll fight thim where I + stand.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre ran his fingers down Macavoy’s arm, and said “There’s time enough + for that. I’d begin with the five.” + </p> + <p> + “What five, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Her half-breed lovers: Big Eye, One Toe, Jo-John, Saucy Boy, and Limber + Legs.” + </p> + <p> + “Her lovers? Her lovers, is it? Is there truth on y’r tongue?” + </p> + <p> + “Go to her father’s tent at sunset, and you’ll find one or all of them + there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is that it?” said the Irishman, opening and shutting his fists. “Then + I’ll carve their hearts out, an’ ate thim wan by wan this night.” + </p> + <p> + “Come down to Wiley’s,” said Pierre; “there’s better company there than + here.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre had arranged many things, and had secured partners in his little + scheme for humbling the braggart. He so worked on the other’s good nature + that by the time they reached the settler’s place, Macavoy was stretching + himself with a big pride. Seated at Wiley’s table, with Hatchett and + others near, and drink going about, someone drew the giant on to talk, and + so deftly and with such apparent innocence did Pierre, by a word here and + a nod there, encourage him, that presently he roared at Wiley and + Hatchett: + </p> + <p> + “Ye shameless buccaneers that push your way into the tracks of honest men, + where the Company’s been three hundred years by the will o’ God—if + it wasn’t for me, ye Jack Sheppards—” + </p> + <p> + Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet with pretended rage, saying he’d + insulted them both, that he was all froth and brawn, and giving him the + lie. + </p> + <p> + Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only stare, puffing in his beard, and + drawing in his legs, which had been spread out at angles. He looked from + Wiley to the impassive Pierre. “Buccaneers, you callus,” Wiley went on; + “well, we’ll have no more of that, or there’ll be trouble at Fort + O’Angel.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, sure y’are only jokin’,” said Macavoy, “for I love ye, ye scoundrels. + It’s only me fun.” + </p> + <p> + “For fun like that you’ll pay, ruffian!” said Hatchett, bringing down his + fist on the table with a bang. + </p> + <p> + Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, but there was nothing of the + coward in his face. “Oh, well,” said he, “I’ll be goin’, for ye’ve got y’r + teeth all raspin’.” + </p> + <p> + As he went the two men laughed after him mockingly. “Wind like a bag,” + said Hatchett. “Bone like a marrow-fat pea,” added Wiley. + </p> + <p> + Macavoy was at the door, but at that he turned. “If ye care to sail agin’ + that wind, an’ gnaw on that bone, I’d not be sayin’ you no.” + </p> + <p> + “Will to-night do—at sunset?” said Wiley. + </p> + <p> + “Bedad, then, me b’ys, sunset’ll do—an’ not more than two at a + time,” he added softly, all the roar gone from his throat. Then he went + out, followed by Pierre. + </p> + <p> + Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and laughed a little confusedly. + “What’s that he said?” muttered Wiley. “Not more than two at a time, was + it?” + </p> + <p> + “That was it. I don’t know that it’s what we bargained for, after all.” He + looked round on the other settlers present, who had been awed by the + childlike, earnest note in Macavoy’s last words. They shook their heads + now a little sagely; they weren’t so sure that Pierre’s little game was so + jovial as it had promised. + </p> + <p> + Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much from his giant as yet. In a + little while he had got Macavoy back to his old humour. + </p> + <p> + “What was I made for but war!” said the Irishman, “an’ by war to kape thim + at peace, wherever I am.” Soon he was sufficiently restored in spirits to + go with Pierre to Bareback’s lodge, where, sitting at the tent door, with + idlers about, he smoked with the chief and his braves. Again Pierre worked + upon him adroitly, and again he became loud in speech, and grandly + patronising. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve stood by ye like a father, ye loafers,” he said, “an’ I give you my + word, ye howlin’ rogues—” + </p> + <p> + Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came up suddenly from the ground, + and the chief said fiercely: “You speak crooked things. We are no rogues. + We will fight.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy’s face ran red to his hair. He scratched his head a little + foolishly, and gathered himself up. “Sure, ‘twas only me tasin’, darlins,” + he said, “but I’ll be comin’ again, when y’are not so narvis.” He turned + to go away. + </p> + <p> + Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the Indian touched the giant on the + arm. “Will you fight?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Not all o’ ye at once,” said Macavoy slowly, running his eye carefully + along the half-dozen; “not more than three at a toime,” he added with a + simple sincerity, his voice again gone like the dove’s. “At what time will + it be convaynyint for ye?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “At sunset,” said the chief, “before the Fort.” Macavoy nodded and walked + away with Pierre, whose glance of approval at the Indians did not make + them thoroughly happy. + </p> + <p> + To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He had already three engagements + of violence for sunset. Pierre directed their steps by a roundabout to the + Company’s stores, and again there was a distinct improvement in the + giant’s spirits. Here at least he could be himself, he thought, here no + one should say him nay. As if nerved by the idea, he plunged at once into + boisterous raillery of the Chief Trader. “Oh, ho,” he began, “me + freebooter, me captain av the looters av the North!” The Trader snarled at + him. “What d’ye mean, by such talk to me, sir? I’ve had enough—we’ve + all had enough—of your brag and bounce; for you’re all sweat and + swill-pipe, and I give you this for your chewing, that though by the + Company’s rules I can’t go out and fight you, you may have your pick of my + men for it. I’ll take my pay for your insults in pounded flesh—Irish + pemmican!” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy’s face became mottled with sudden rage. He roared, as, perhaps, he + had never roared before: “Are ye all gone mad-mad-mad? I was jokin’ wid + ye, whin I called ye this or that. But by the swill o’ me pipe, and the + sweat o’ me skin, I’ll drink the blood o’ yees, Trader, me darlin’. An’ + all I’ll ask is, that ye mate me to-night whin the rest o’ the pack is in + front o’ the Fort—but not more than four o’ yees at a time—for + little scrawney rats as y’are, too many o’ yees wad be in me way.” He + wheeled and strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a great bully that, isn’t he, Trader? There’ll be fun in front of + the Fort to-night. For he’s only bragging, of course—eh?” + </p> + <p> + The Trader nodded with no great assurance, and then Pierre said as a + parting word: “You’ll be there, of course—only four av ye!” and + hurried out after Macavoy, humming to himself— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “For the King said this, and the Queen said that, + But he walked away with their army, O!” + </pre> + <p> + So far Pierre’s plan had worked even better than he expected, though + Macavoy’s moods had not been altogether after his imaginings. He drew + alongside the giant, who had suddenly grown quiet again. Macavoy turned + and looked down at Pierre with the candour of a schoolboy, and his voice + was very low: + </p> + <p> + “It’s a long time ago, I’m thinkin’,” he said, “since I lost me frinds—ages + an’ ages ago. For me frinds are me inimies now, an’ that makes a man old. + But I’ll not say that it cripples his arm or humbles his back.” He drew + his arm up once or twice and shot it out straight into the air like a + catapult. “It’s all right,” he added, very softly, “an’, Half-breed, me + b’y, if me frinds have turned inimies, why, I’m thinkin’ me inimy has + turned frind, for that I’m sure you were, an’ this I’m certain y ‘are. So + here’s the grip av me fist, an’ y’ll have it.” Pierre remembered that + disconcerting, iron grip of friendship for many a day. He laughed to + himself to think how he was turning the braggart into a warrior. “Well,” + said Pierre, “what about those five at Wonta’s tent?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be there whin the sun dips below the Little Red Hill,” he said, as + though his thoughts were far away, and he turned his face towards Wonta’s + tent. Presently he laughed out loud. “It’s manny along day,” he said, + “since—” + </p> + <p> + Then he changed his thoughts. “They’ve spoke sharp words in me teeth,” he + continued, “and they’ll pay for it. Bounce! sweat! brag! wind! is it? + There’s dancin’ beyant this night, me darlins!” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure you’ll not run away when they come on?” said Pierre, a + little ironically. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the word av a frind?” replied Macavoy, a hand fumbling in his + hair. + </p> + <p> + “Did you never run away when faced?” Pierre asked pitilessly. + </p> + <p> + “I never turned tail from a man, though, to be sure, it’s been more talk + than fight up here: Fort Ste. Anne’s been but a graveyard for fun these + years.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh, well,” persisted Pierre, “but did you never turn tail from a slip of + a woman?” + </p> + <p> + The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered his beard in his mouth, chewing + it confusedly. “You’ve a keen tongue for a question,” was his reply. “What + for should anny man run from a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “When the furniture flies, an’ the woman knows more of the world in a day + than the man does in a year; and the man’s a hulking bit of an Irishman—bien, + then things are so and so!” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trembling. “Come into the shade of + these maples,” said Pierre, “for the sun has set you quaking a little,” + and he put out his hand to take Macavoy’s arm. + </p> + <p> + The giant drew away from the hand, but walked on to the trees. His face + seemed to have grown older by years on the moment. “What’s this y’are + sayin’ to me?” he asked hoarsely. “What do you know av—av that + woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Malahide is a long way off,” said Pierre, “but when one travels why + shouldn’t the other?” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy made a helpless motion with his lumbering hand. “Mother o’ + saints,” he said, “has it come to that, after all these years? Is she—tell + me where she is, me frind, and you’ll niver want an arm to fight for ye, + an’ the half av a blanket, while I have wan!” + </p> + <p> + “But you’ll run as you did before, if I tell you, an’ there’ll be no + fighting to-night, accordin’ to the word you’ve given.” + </p> + <p> + “No fightin’, did ye say? an’ run away, is it? Then this in your eye, that + if ye’ll bring an army, I’ll fight till the skin is in rags on me bones, + whin it’s only men that’s before me; but woman—and that wan! Faith, + I’d run, I’m thinkin’, as I did, you know when—Don’t tell me that + she’s here, man; arrah, don’t say that!” + </p> + <p> + There was something pitiful and childlike in the big man’s voice, so much + so that Pierre, calculating gamester as he was, and working upon him as he + had been for many weeks, felt a sudden pity, and dropping his fingers on + the other’s arm, said: “No, Macavoy, my friend, she is not here; but she + is at Fort Ste. Anne—or was when I left there.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy groaned. “Does she know that I’m here?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away, and she may not hear.” + </p> + <p> + “What—what is she doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan’s green.” Then Pierre told him + somewhat bluntly what he knew of Mrs. Macavoy. + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather face Ballzeboob himself than her,” said Macavoy. “An’ she’s + sure to find me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not if you do as I say.” + </p> + <p> + “An’ what is it ye say, little man?” + </p> + <p> + “Come away with me where she’ll not find you.” + </p> + <p> + “An’ where’s that, Pierre darlin’?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you that when to-night’s fighting’s over. Have you a mind for + Wonta?” he continued. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve a mind for Wonta an’ many another as fine, but I’m a married man,” + he said, “by priest an’ by book; an’ I can’t forget that, though the + woman’s to me as the pit below.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked curiously at him. “You’re a wonderful fool,” he said, “but + I’m not sure that I like you less for that. There was Shon M’Gann—but + it is no matter.” He sighed and continued: “When to-night is over, you + shall have work and fun that you’ve been fattening for this many a year, + and the woman’ll not find you, be sure of that. Besides—” he + whispered in Macavoy’s ear. + </p> + <p> + “Poor divil, poor divil, she’d always a throat for that; but it’s a + horrible death to die, I’m thinkin’.” Macavoy’s chin dropped on his + breast. + </p> + <p> + When the sun was falling below Little Red Hill, Macavoy came to Wonta’s + tent. Pierre was not far away. What occurred in the tent Pierre never + quite knew, but presently he saw Wonta run out in a frightened way, + followed by the five half-breeds, who carried themselves awkwardly. Behind + them again, with head shaking from one side to the other, travelled + Macavoy; and they all marched away towards the Fort. “Well,” said Pierre + to Wonta, “he is amusing, eh?—so big a coward, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” she said, “you are wrong. He is no coward. He is a great brave. + He spoke like a little child, but he said he would fight them all when—” + </p> + <p> + “When their turn came,” interposed Pierre, with a fine “bead” of humour in + his voice; “well, you see he has much to do.” He pointed towards the Fort, + where people were gathering fast. The strange news had gone abroad, and + the settlement, laughing joyously, came to see Macavoy swagger; they did + not think there would be fighting. + </p> + <p> + Those whom Macavoy had challenged were not so sure. When the giant reached + the open space in front of the Fort, he looked slowly round him. A great + change had come over him. His skin seemed drawn together more firmly, and + running himself up finely to his full height, he looked no longer the + lounging braggart. Pierre measured him with his eye, and chuckled to + himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his coat and waistcoat, and rolled up + his sleeves. His shirt was flying at the chest. + </p> + <p> + He beckoned to Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “Are you standin’ me frind in this?” he said. “Now and after,” said + Pierre. + </p> + <p> + His voice was very simple. “I never felt as I do since the day the + coast-guardsmin dropped on me in Ireland far away, an’ I drew blood an + every wan o’ them—fine beautiful b’ys they looked—stretchen’ + out on the ground wan by wan. D’ye know the double-an’-twist?” he suddenly + added, “for it’s a honey trick whin they gather in an you, an’ you can’t + be layin’ out wid yer fists. It plays the divil wid the spines av thim. + Will ye have a drop av drink—cold water, man—near, an’ a + sponge betune whiles? For there’s manny in the play—makin’ up for + lost time. Come on,” he added to the two settlers, who stood not far away, + “for ye began the trouble, an’ we’ll settle accordin’ to a, b, c.” + </p> + <p> + Wiley and Hatchett were there. Responding to his call, they stepped + forward, though they had now little relish for the matter. They were pale, + but they stripped their coats and waistcoats, and Wiley stepped bravely in + front of Macavoy. The giant looked down on him, arms folded. “I said two + of you,” he crooned, as if speaking to a woman. Hatchett stepped forward + also. An instant after the settlers were lying on the ground at different + angles, bruised and dismayed, and little likely to carry on the war. + Macavoy took a pail of water from the ground, drank from it lightly, and + waited. None other of his opponents stirred. “There’s three Injins,” he + said, “three rid divils, that wants showin’ the way to their happy huntin’ + grounds.... Sure, y’are comin’, ain’t you, me darlins?” he added + coaxingly, and he stretched himself, as if to make ready. + </p> + <p> + Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three Indians, and they stepped + forth warily. They had determined on strategic wrestling, and not on the + instant activity of fists. But their wiliness was useless, for Macavoy’s + double-and-twist came near to lessening the Indian population of Fort + O’Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm, however. The Irishman came out of + the tangle of battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his beard all + torn, and face battered. A shout of laughter, admiration and wonder went + up from the crowd. There was a moment’s pause, and then Macavoy, whose + blood ran high, stood forth again. The Trader came to him. + </p> + <p> + “Must this go on?” he said; “haven’t you had your fill of it?” + </p> + <p> + Had he touched Macavoy with a word of humour the matter might have ended + there; but now the giant spoke loud, so all could hear. + </p> + <p> + “Had me fill av it, Trader, me angel? I’m only gittin’ the taste av it. + An’ ye’ll plaze bring on yer men—four it was—for the feed av + Irish pemmican.” + </p> + <p> + The Trader turned and swore at Pierre, who smiled enigmatically. Soon + after, two of the best fighters of the Company’s men stood forth. Macavoy + shook his head. “Four, I said, an’ four I’ll have, or I’ll ate the heads + aff these.” + </p> + <p> + Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All on an instant the four made a + rush on the giant; and there was a stiff minute after, in which it was not + clear that he was happy. Blows rattled on him, and one or two he got on + the head, just as he tossed a man spinning senseless across the grass, + which sent him staggering backwards for a moment, sick and stunned. + </p> + <p> + Pierre called over to him swiftly: “Remember Malahide!” + </p> + <p> + This acted on him like a charm. There never was seen such a shattered + bundle of men as came out from his hands a few minutes later. As for + himself, he had but a rag or two on him, but stood unmindful of his state, + and the fever of battle untameable on him. The women drew away. + </p> + <p> + “Now, me babes o’ the wood,” he shouted, “that sit at the feet av the + finest Injin woman in the North,—though she’s no frind o’ mine—and + aren’t fit to kiss her moccasin, come an wid you, till I have me fun wid + your spines.” + </p> + <p> + But a shout went up, and the crowd pointed. There were the five + half-breeds running away across the plains. + </p> + <p> + The game was over. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s some clothes, man; for Heaven’s sake put them on,” said the + Trader. + </p> + <p> + Then the giant became conscious of his condition, and like a timid girl he + hurried into the clothing. + </p> + <p> + The crowd would have carried him on their shoulders, but he would have + none of it. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve only wan frind here,” he said, “an’ it’s Pierre, an’ to his shanty I + go an’ no other.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, mon ami,” said Pierre, “for to-morrow we travel far.” + </p> + <p> + “And what for that?” said Macavoy. + </p> + <p> + Pierre whispered in his ear: “To make you a king, my lovely bully.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FILIBUSTER + </h2> + <p> + Pierre had determined to establish a kingdom, not for gain, but for + conquest’s sake. But because he knew that the thing would pall, he took + with him Macavoy the giant, to make him king instead. But first he made + Macavoy from a lovely bully, a bulk of good-natured brag, into a Hercules + of fight; for, having made him insult—and be insulted by—near + a score of men at Fort O’Angel, he also made him fight them by twos, + threes, and fours, all on a summer’s evening, and send them away broken. + Macavoy would have hesitated to go with Pierre, were it not that he feared + a woman. Not that he had wronged her; she had wronged him: she had married + him. And the fear of one’s own wife is the worst fear in the world. + </p> + <p> + But though his heart went out to women, and his tongue was of the race + that beguiles, he stood to his “lines” like a man, and people wondered. + Even Wonta, the daughter of Foot-in-the-Sun, only bent him, she could not + break him to her will. Pierre turned her shy coaxing into irony—that + was on the day when all Fort O’Angel conspired to prove Macavoy a child + and not a warrior. But when she saw what she had done, and that the giant + was greater than his years of brag, she repented, and hung a dead coyote + at Pierre’s door as a sign of her contempt. + </p> + <p> + Pierre watched Macavoy, sitting with a sponge of vinegar to his head, for + he had had nasty joltings in his great fight. A little laugh came + crinkling up to the half-breed’s lips, but dissolved into silence. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll start in the morning,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Macavoy looked up. “Whin you plaze; but a word in your ear; are you sure + she’ll not follow us?” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t know. Fort Ste. Anne is in the south, and Fort Comfort, where + we go, is far north.” + </p> + <p> + “But if she kem!” the big man persisted. + </p> + <p> + “You will be a king; you can do as other kings have done,” Pierre + chuckled. + </p> + <p> + The other shook his head. “Says Father Nolan to me,” says he, “tis till + death us do part, an’ no man put asunder’; an’ I’ll stand by that, though + I’d slice out the bist tin years av me life, if I niver saw her face + again.” + </p> + <p> + “But the girl, Wonta—what a queen she’d make!” + </p> + <p> + “Marry her yourself, and be king yourself, and be damned to you! For she, + like the rest, laughed in me face, whin I told thim of the day whin I—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s nothing. She hung a dead coyote at my door. You don’t know women. + There’ll be your breed and hers abroad in the land one day.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy stretched to his feet—he was so tall that he could not stand + upright in the room. He towered over Pierre, who blandly eyed him. “I’ve + another word for your ear,” he said darkly. “Keep clear av the likes o’ + that wid me. For I’ve swallowed a tribe av divils. It’s fightin’ you want. + Well, I’ll do it—I’ve an itch for the throats av men, but a fool + I’ll be no more wid wimin, white or red—that hell-cat that spoilt me + life an’ killed me child, or—” + </p> + <p> + A sob clutched him in the throat. + </p> + <p> + “You had a child, then?” asked Pierre gently. + </p> + <p> + “An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an’ ‘d melt the heart av an iron + god: none like her above or below. But the mother, ah, the mother of her! + One day whin she’d said a sharp word, wid another from me, an’ the child + clinging to her dress, she turned quick and struck it, meanin’ to anger + me. Not so hard the blow was, but it sent the darlin’s head agin’ the + chimney-stone, and that was the end av it. For she took to her bed, an’ + agin’ the crowin’ o’ the cock wan midnight, she gives a little cry an’ + snatched at me beard. ‘Daddy,’ says she, ‘daddy, it hurts!’ An’ thin she + floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her lips.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling in his beard. Pierre was + uncomfortable. He could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death unmoved—it + seemed to him in the game; but the tragedy of a child, a mere counter yet + in the play of life—that was different. He slid a hand over the + table, and caught Macavoy’s arm. “Poor little waif!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned Pierre sick, and asked: “Had ye + iver a child av y’r own, Pierre-iver wan at all?” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” said Pierre dreamily, “and I’ve travelled far. A child—a + child—is a wonderful thing.... Poor little waif!” + </p> + <p> + They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre was about to rise, but Macavoy + suddenly pinned him to his seat with this question: “Did y’ iver have a + wife, thin, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came through his teeth. He spoke + slowly: “Yes, once.” + </p> + <p> + “And she died?” asked the other, awed. + </p> + <p> + “We all have our day,” he replied enigmatically, “and there are worse + things than death.... Eh, well, mon ami, let us talk of other things. + To-morrow we go to conquer. I know where I can get five men I want. I have + ammunition and dogs.” + </p> + <p> + A few minutes afterwards Pierre was busy in the settlement. At the Fort he + heard strange news. A new batch of settlers was coming from the south, and + among them was an old Irishwoman who called herself now Mrs. Whelan, now + Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she was to find, one Tim Macavoy, + whose fame Gossip had brought to her at last. + </p> + <p> + She had clung on to the settlers, and they could not shake her off. “She + was comin’,” she said, “to her own darlin’ b’y, from whom she’d been + parted manny a year, believin’ him dead, or Tom Whelan had nivir touched + hand o’ hers.” + </p> + <p> + The bearer of the news had but just arrived, and he told it only to the + Chief Trader and Pierre. At a word from Pierre the man promised to hold + his peace. Then Pierre went to Wonta’s lodge. He found her with her father + alone, her head at her knees. When she heard his voice she looked up + sharply, and added a sharp word also. + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” he said; “women are such fools. You snapped your fingers in his + face, and laughed at him. Bien, that is nothing. He has proved himself + great. That is something. He will be greater still, if the other woman + does not find him. She should die, but then some women have no sense.” + </p> + <p> + “The other woman!” said Wonta, starting to her feet; “who is the other + woman?” + </p> + <p> + Old Foot-in-the-Sun waked and sat up, but seeing that it was Pierre, + dropped again to sleep. Pierre, he knew, was no peril to any woman. + Besides, Wonta hated the half-breed, as he thought. + </p> + <p> + Pierre told the girl the story of Macavoy’s life; for he knew that she + loved the man after her heathen fashion, and that she could be trusted. + </p> + <p> + “I do not care for that,” she said, when he had finished; “it is nothing. + I would go with him. I should be his wife, the other should die. I would + kill her, if she would fight me. I know the way of knives, or a rifle, or + a pinch at the throat—she should die!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but that will not do. Keep your hands free of her.” + </p> + <p> + Then he told her that they were going away. She said she would go also. He + said no to that, but told her to wait and he would come back for her. + </p> + <p> + Though she tried hard to follow them, they slipped away from the Fort in + the moist gloom of the morning, the brown grass rustling, the prairie-hens + fluttering, the osiers soughing as they passed, the Spirit of the North, + ever hungry, drawing them on over the long Divides. They did not see each + other’s faces till dawn. They were guided by Pierre’s voice; none knew his + comrades. Besides Pierre and Macavoy, there were five half-breeds—Noel, + Little Babiche, Corvette, Josh, and Jacques Parfaite. When they came to + recognise each other, they shook hands, and marched on. In good time they + reached that wonderful and pleasant country between the Barren Grounds and + the Lake of Silver Shallows. To the north of it was Fort Comfort, which + they had come to take. Macavoy’s rich voice roared as of old, before his + valour was questioned—and maintained—at Fort O’Angel. Pierre + had diverted his mind from the woman who, at Fort O’Angel, was even now + calling heaven and earth to witness that “Tim Macavoy was her Macavoy and + no other, an’ she’d find him—the divil and darlin’, wid an arm like + Broin Borhoime, an’ a chest you could build a house on—if she walked + till Doomsday!” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy stood out grandly, his fat all gone to muscle, blowing through his + beard, puffing his cheek, and ready with tale or song. But now that they + were facing the business of their journey, his voice got soft and gentle, + as it did before the Fort, when he grappled his foes two by two and three + by three, and wrung them out. In his eyes there was the thing which counts + as many men in any soldier’s sight, when he leads in battle. As he said + himself, he was made for war, like Malachi o’ the Golden Collar. + </p> + <p> + Pierre guessed that just now many of the Indians would be away for the + summer hunt, and that the Fort would perhaps be held by only a few score + of braves, who, however, would fight when they might easier play. He had + no useless compunctions about bloodshed. A human life he held to be a + trifle in the big sum of time, and that it was of little moment when a man + went, if it seemed his hour. He lived up to his creed, for he had ever + held his own life as a bird upon a housetop, which a chance stone might + drop. + </p> + <p> + He was glad afterwards that he had decided to fight, for there was one in + Fort Comfort against whom he had an old grudge—the Indian, Young + Eye, who, many years before, had been one to help in killing the good + Father Halen, the priest who dropped the water on his forehead and set the + cross on top of that, when he was at his mother’s breasts. One by one the + murderers had been killed, save this man. He had wandered north, lived on + the Coppermine River for a long time, and at length had come down among + the warring tribes at the Lake of Silver Shallows. + </p> + <p> + Pierre was for direct attack. They crossed the lake in their canoes, at a + point about five miles from the Fort, and, so far as they could tell, + without being seen. Then ammunition went round, and they marched upon the + Fort. Pierre eyed Macavoy—measured him, as it were, for what he was + worth. The giant seemed happy. He was humming a tune softly through his + beard. Suddenly Jose paused, dropped to the foot of a pine, and put his + ear to it. Pierre understood. He had caught at the same thing. “There is a + dance on,” said Jose, “I can hear the drum.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre thought a minute. “We will reconnoitre,” he said presently. + </p> + <p> + “It is near night now,” remarked Little Babiche. “I know something of + these. When they have a great snake dance at night, strange things + happen.” Then he spoke in a low tone to Pierre. + </p> + <p> + They halted in the bush, and Little Babiche went forward to spy upon the + Fort. He came back just after sunset, reporting that the Indians were + feasting. He had crept near, and had learned that the braves were expected + back from the hunt that night, and that the feast was for their welcome. + </p> + <p> + The Fort stood in an open space, with tall trees for a background. In + front, here and there, were juniper and tamarac bushes. Pierre laid his + plans immediately, and gave the word to move on. Their presence had not + been discovered, and if they could but surprise the Indians the Fort might + easily be theirs. They made a detour, and after an hour came upon the Fort + from behind. Pierre himself went forward cautiously, leaving Macavoy in + command. When he came again he said: + </p> + <p> + “It’s a fine sight, and the way is open. They are feasting and dancing. If + we can enter without being seen, we are safe, except for food; we must + trust for that. Come on.” + </p> + <p> + When they arrived at the margin of the woods a wonderful scene was before + them. A volcanic hill rose up on one side, gloomy and stern, but the + reflection of the fires reached it, and made its sides quiver—the + rock itself seemed trembling. The sombre pines showed up, a wall all + round, and in the open space, turreted with fantastic fires, the Indians + swayed in and out with weird chanting, their bodies mostly naked, and + painted in strange colours. The earth itself was still and sober. Scarce a + star peeped forth. A purple velvet curtain seemed to hang all down the + sky, though here and there the flame bronzed it. The Indian lodges were + empty, save where a few children squatted at the openings. The seven stood + still with wonder, till Pierre whispered to them to get to the ground and + crawl close in by the walls of the Fort, following him. They did so, + Macavoy breathing hard—too hard; for suddenly Pierre clapped a hand + on his mouth. + </p> + <p> + They were now near the Fort, and Pierre had seen an Indian come from the + gate. The brave was within a few feet of them. He had almost passed them, + for they were in the shadow, but Jose had burst a puffball with his hand, + and the dust, flying up, made him sneeze. The Indian turned and saw them. + With a low cry and the spring of a tiger Pierre was at his throat; and in + another minute they were struggling on the ground. Pierre’s hand never let + go. His comrades did not stir; he had warned them to lie still. They saw + the terrible game played out within arm’s length of them. They heard + Pierre say at last, as the struggles of the Indian ceased: “Beast! You had + Father Halen’s life. I have yours.” + </p> + <p> + There was one more wrench of the Indian’s limbs, and then he lay still. + </p> + <p> + They crawled nearer the gate, still hidden in the shadows and the grass. + Presently they came to a clear space. Across this they must go, and enter + the Fort before they were discovered. They got to their feet, and ran with + wonderful swiftness, Pierre leading, to the gate. They had just reached it + when there was a cry from the walls, on which two Indians were sitting. + The Indians sprang down, seized their spears, and lunged at the seven as + they entered. One spear caught Little Babiche in the arm as he swung + aside, but with the butt of his musket Noel dropped him. The other Indian + was promptly handled by Pierre himself. By this time Corvette and Jose had + shut the gates, and the Fort was theirs—an easy conquest. The + Indians were bound and gagged. + </p> + <p> + The adventurers had done it all without drawing the attention of the + howling crowd without. The matter was in its infancy, however. They had + the place, but could they hold it? What food and water were there within? + Perhaps they were hardly so safe besieged as besiegers. Yet there was no + doubt on Pierre’s part. He had enjoyed the adventure so far up to the + hilt. An old promise had been kept, and an old wrong avenged. + </p> + <p> + “What’s to be done now?” said Macavoy. “There’ll be hell’s own racket; and + they’ll come on like a flood.” + </p> + <p> + “To wait,” said Pierre, “and dam the flood as it comes. But not a bullet + till I give the word. Take to the chinks. We’ll have them soon.” + </p> + <p> + He was right: they came soon. Someone had found the dead body of Young + Eye; then it was discovered that the gate was shut. A great shout went up. + The Indians ran to their lodges for spears and hatchets, though the + weapons of many were within the Fort, and soon they were about the place, + shouting in impotent rage. They could not tell how many invaders were in + the Fort; they suspected it was the Little Skins, their ancient enemies. + But Young Eye, they saw, had not been scalped. This was brought to the old + chief, and he called to his men to fall back. They had not seen one man of + the invaders; all was silent and dark within the Fort; even the two + torches which had been burning above the gate were down. At that moment, + as if to add to the strangeness, a caribou came suddenly through the + fires, and, passing not far from the bewildered Indians, plunged into the + trees behind the Fort. + </p> + <p> + The caribou is credited with great powers. It is thought to understand all + that is said to it, and to be able to take the form of a spirit. No Indian + will come near it till it is dead, and he that kills it out of season is + supposed to bring down all manner of evil. + </p> + <p> + So at this sight they cried out—the women falling to the ground with + their faces in their arms—that the caribou had done this thing. For + a moment they were all afraid. Besides, as a brave showed, there was no + mark on the body of Young Eye. + </p> + <p> + Pierre knew quite well that this was a bull caribou, travelling wildly + till he found another herd. He would carry on the deception. “Wail for the + dead, as your women do in Ireland. That will finish them,” he said to + Macavoy. + </p> + <p> + The giant threw his voice up and out, so that it seemed to come from over + the Fort to the Indians, weird and crying. Even the half-breeds standing + by felt a light shock of unnatural excitement. The Indians without drew + back slowly from the Fort, leaving a clear space between. Macavoy had + uncanny tricks with his voice, and presently he changed the song into a + shrill, wailing whistle, which went trembling about the place and then + stopped suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, that’s a poor game, Pierre,” he whispered; “an’ I’d rather be + pluggin’ their hides wid bullets, or givin’ the double-an’-twist. It’s + fightin’ I come for, and not the trick av Mother Kilkevin.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre arranged a plan of campaign at once. Every man looked to his gun, + the gates were slowly opened, and Macavoy stepped out. Pierre had thrown + over the Irishman’s shoulders the great skin of a musk-ox which he had + found inside the stockade. He was a strange, immense figure, as he walked + into the open space, and, folding his arms, looked round. In the shadow of + the gate behind were Pierre and the halfbreeds, with guns cocked. + </p> + <p> + Macavoy had lived so long in the north that he knew enough of all the + languages to speak to this tribe. When he came out a murmur of wonder ran + among the Indians. They had never seen anyone so tall, for they were not + great of stature, and his huge beard and wild shock of hair were a + wonderful sight. He remained silent, looking on them. At last the old + chief spoke. “Who are you?” + </p> + <p> + “I am a great chief from the Hills of the Mighty Men, come to be your + king,” was his reply. + </p> + <p> + “He is your king,” cried Pierre in a strange voice from the shadow of the + gate, and he thrust out his gun-barrel, so that they could see it. + </p> + <p> + The Indians now saw Pierre and the half-breeds in the gateway, and they + had not so much awe. They came a little nearer, and the women stopped + crying. A few of the braves half-raised their spears. Seeing this, Pierre + instantly stepped forward to the giant. He looked a child in stature + thereby. He spoke quickly and well in the Chinook language. + </p> + <p> + “This is a mighty man from the Hills of the Mighty Men. He has come to + rule over you, to give all other tribes into your hands; for he has + strength like a thousand, and fears nothing of gods nor men. I have the + blood of red men in me. It is I who have called this man from his distant + home. I heard of your fighting and foolishness: also that warriors were to + come from the south country to scatter your wives and children, and to + make you slaves. I pitied you, and I have brought you a chief greater than + any other. Throw your spears upon the ground, and all will be well; but + raise one to throw, or one arrow, or axe, and there shall be death among + you, so that as a people you shall die. The spirits are with us. ... + Well?” + </p> + <p> + The Indians drew a little nearer, but they did not drop their spears, for + the old chief forbade them. + </p> + <p> + “We are no dogs nor cowards,” he said, “though the spirits be with you, as + we believe. We have seen strange things”—he pointed to Young Eye—“and + heard voices not of men; but we would see great things as well as strange. + There are seven men of the Little Skins tribe within a lodge yonder. They + were to die when our braves returned from the hunt, and for that we + prepared the feast. But this mighty man, he shall fight them all at once, + and if he kills them he shall be our king. In the name of my tribe I + speak. And this other,” pointing to Pierre, “he shall also fight with a + strong man of our tribe, so that we shall know if you are all brave, and + not as those who crawl at the knees of the mighty.” + </p> + <p> + This was more than Pierre had bargained for. Seven men at Macavoy, and + Indians too, fighting for their lives, was a contract of weight. But + Macavoy was blowing in his beard cheerfully enough. + </p> + <p> + “Let me choose me ground,” he said, “wid me back to the wall, an’ I’ll + take thim as they come.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre instantly interpreted this to the Indians, and said for himself + that he would welcome their strongest man at the point of a knife when he + chose. + </p> + <p> + The chief gave an order, and the Little Skins were brought. The fires + still burned brightly, and the breathing of the pines, as a slight wind + rose and stirred them, came softly over. The Indians stood off at the + command of the chief. Macavoy drew back to the wall, dropped the musk-ox + skin to the ground, and stripped himself to the waist. But in his + waistband there was what none of these Indians had ever seen—a small + revolver that barked ever so softly. In the hands of each Little Skin + there was put a knife, and they were told their cheerful exercise. They + came on cautiously, and then suddenly closed in, knives flashing. But + Macavoy’s little bulldog barked, and one dropped to the ground. The others + fell back. The wounded man drew up, made a lunge at Macavoy, but missed + him. As if ashamed, the other six came on again at a spring. But again the + weapon did its work smartly, and one more came down. Now the giant put it + away, ran in upon the five, and cut right and left. So sudden and massive + was his rush that they had no chance. Three fell at his blows, and then he + drew back swiftly to the wall. “Drop your knives,” he said, as they + cowered, “or I’ll kill you all.” They did so. He dropped his own. + </p> + <p> + “Now come on, ye scuts!” he cried, and suddenly he reached and caught + them, one with each arm, and wrestled with them, till he bent the one like + a willow-rod, and dropped him with a broken back, while the other was at + his mercy. Suddenly loosing him, he turned him towards the woods, and + said: “Run, ye rid divil, run for y’r life!” + </p> + <p> + A dozen spears were raised, but the rifles of Pierre’s men came in + between: the Indian reached cover and was gone. Of the six others, two had + been killed, the rest were severely wounded, and Macavoy had not a + scratch. + </p> + <p> + Pierre smiled grimly. “You’ve been doing all the fighting, Macavoy,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no bein’ a king for nothin’,” he replied, wiping blood from his + beard. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my turn now, but keep your rifles ready, though I think there’s no + need.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre had but a short minute with the champion, for he was an expert with + the knife. He carried away four fingers of the Indian’s fighting hand, and + that ended it; for the next instant the point was at the red man’s throat. + The Indian stood to take it like a man; but Pierre loved that kind of + courage, and shot the knife into its sheath instead. + </p> + <p> + The old chief kept his word, and after the spears were piled, he shook + hands with Macavoy, as did his braves one by one, and they were all moved + by the sincerity of his grasp: their arms were useless for some time + after. They hailed as their ruler, King Macavoy I.; for men are like dogs—they + worship him who beats them. The feasting and dancing went on till the + hunters came back. Then there was a wild scene, but in the end all the + hunters, satisfied, came to greet their new king. + </p> + <p> + The king himself went to bed in the Fort that night, Pierre and his + bodyguard—by name Noel, Little Babiche, Corvette, Jose, and Parfaite—its + only occupants, singing joyfully: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Did yees iver hear tell o’ Long Barney, + That come from the groves o’ Killarney? + He wint for a king, oh, he wint for a king, + But he niver keen back to Killarney + Wid his crown, an’ his soord, an’ his army!” + </pre> + <p> + As a king Macavoy was a success, for the brag had gone from him. Like all + his race he had faults as a subject, but the responsibility of ruling set + him right. He found in the Fort an old sword and belt, left by some + Hudson’s Bay Company’s man, and these he furbished up and wore. + </p> + <p> + With Pierre’s aid he drew up a simple constitution, which he carried in + the crown of his cap, and he distributed beads and gaudy trappings as + marks of honour. Nor did he forget the frequent pipe of peace, made + possible to all by generous gifts of tobacco. Anyone can found a kingdom + abaft the Barren Grounds with tobacco, beads, and red flannel. + </p> + <p> + For very many weeks it was a happy kingdom. But presently Pierre yawned, + and was ready to return. Three of the half-breeds were inclined to go with + him. Jose and Little Babiche had formed alliances which held them there—besides, + King Macavoy needed them. + </p> + <p> + On the eve of Pierre’s departure a notable thing occurred. + </p> + <p> + A young brave had broken his leg in hunting, had been picked up by a band + of another tribe, and carried south. He found himself at last at Fort + O’Angel. There he had met Mrs. Whelan, and for presents of tobacco, and + purple and fine linen, he had led her to her consort. That was how the + king and Pierre met her in the yard of Fort Comfort one evening of early + autumn. Pierre saw her first, and was for turning the King about and + getting him away; but it was too late. Mrs. Whelan had seen him, and she + called out at him: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Tim! me jool, me king, have I found ye, me imp’ror!” + </p> + <p> + She ran at him, to throw her arms round him. He stepped back, the red of + his face going white, and said, stretching out his hand, “Woman, y’are me + wife, I know, whativer y’ be; an’ y’ve right to have shelter and bread av + me; but me arms, an’ me bed, are me own to kape or to give; and, by God, + ye shall have nayther one nor the other! There’s a ditch as wide as hell + betune us.” + </p> + <p> + The Indians had gathered quickly; they filled the yard, and crowded the + gate. The woman went wild, for she had been drinking. She ran at Macavoy + and spat in his face, and called down such a curse on him as, whoever + hears, be he one that’s cursed or any other, shudders at till he dies. + Then she fell in a fit at his feet. Macavoy turned to the Indians, + stretched out his hands and tried to speak, but could not. He stooped + down, picked up the woman, carried her into the Fort, and laid her on a + bed of skins. + </p> + <p> + “What will you do?” asked Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “She is my wife,” he answered firmly. + </p> + <p> + “She lived with Whelan.” + </p> + <p> + “She must be cared for,” was the reply. Pierre looked at him with a + curious quietness. “I’ll get liquor for her,” he said presently. He + started to go, but turned and felt the woman’s pulse. “You would keep + her?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Bring the liquor.” Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the sleeve of + his shirt in it, wetted her face gently. + </p> + <p> + Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that the woman would die. He stayed + with Macavoy beside her all the night. Towards morning her eyes opened, + and she shivered greatly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s bither cold,” she said. “You’ll put more wood on the fire, Tim, for + the babe must be kept warrum.” + </p> + <p> + She thought she was at Malahide. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, wurra, wurra, but ‘tis freezin’!” she said again. “Why d’ye kape the + door opin whin the child’s perishin’?” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shaking him. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll shut the door meself, thin,” she added; “for ‘twas I that lift it + opin, Tim.” She started up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell + back. + </p> + <p> + “The door is shut,” said Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “But the child—the child!” said Macavoy, tears running down his face + and beard. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING + </h2> + <p> + Once Macavoy the giant ruled a tribe of Northern people, achieving the + dignity by the hands of Pierre, who called him King Macavoy. Then came a + time when, tiring of his kingship, he journeyed south, leaving all behind, + even his queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and yarrow, came forth + no more into the morning. About Fort Guidon they still gave him his title, + and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and generosity, Pierre called + him “The Simple King.” His seven feet and over shambled about, suggesting + unjointed power, unshackled force. No one hated Macavoy, many loved him, + he was welcome at the fire and the cooking-pot; yet it seemed shameful to + have so much man useless—such an engine of life, which might do + great things, wasting fuel. Nobody thought much of that at Fort Guidon, + except, perhaps, Pierre, who sometimes said, “My simple king, some day you + shall have your great chance again; but not as a king—as a giant, a + man—voila!” + </p> + <p> + The day did not come immediately, but it came. When Ida, the deaf and dumb + girl, married Hilton, of the H.B.C., every man at Fort Guidon, and some + from posts beyond, sent her or brought her presents of one kind or + another. Pierre’s gift was a Mexican saddle. He was branding Ida’s name on + it with the broken blade of a case-knife when Macavoy entered on him, + having just returned from a vagabond visit to Fort Ste. Anne. + </p> + <p> + “Is it digging out or carvin’ in y’are?” he asked, puffing into his beard. + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not reply to the insinuation, for + he never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it; and he would not + quarrel with Macavoy. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to give?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, give what to who, hop-o’-me-thumb?” Macavoy said, stretching himself + out in the doorway, his legs in the sun, head in the shade. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been taking a walk in the country, then?” Pierre asked, though he + knew. + </p> + <p> + “To Fort Ste. Anne: a buryin’, two christ’nin’s, an’ a weddin’; an’ + lashin’s av grog an’ swill-aw that, me button o’ the North!” + </p> + <p> + “La la! What a fool you are, my simple king! You’ve got the things end + foremost. Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light a cigarette, + and if you breathe this way, there will be a grand explode.” + </p> + <p> + “Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre! It’s like a baby’s, me breath is, milk + and honey it is—aw yis; an’ Father Corraine, that was doin’ the + trick for the love o’ God, says he to me, ‘Little Tim Macavoy,’—aw + yis, little Tim Macavoy,—says he, ‘when are you goin’ to buckle to, + for the love o’ God?’ says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that Father Corraine + should spake to me like that, for I’d only a twig twisted at me hips to + kape me trousies up, an’ I thought ‘twas that he had in his eye! ‘Buckle + to,’ says I, ‘Father Corraine? Buckle to, yer riv’rince?’—feelin’ I + was at the twigs the while. ‘Ay, little Tim Macavoy,’ he says, says he, + ‘you’ve bin ‘atin’ the husks av idleness long enough; when are you goin’ + to buckle to? You had a kingdom and ye guv it up,’ says he; ‘take a field, + get a plough, and buckle to,’ says he, ‘an’ turn back no more’—like + that, says Father Corraine; and I thinkin’ all the time ‘twas the want o’ + me belt he was drivin’ at.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then said: “Such a tom-fool! And + where’s that grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch?” + </p> + <p> + A laugh shook through Macavoy’s beard. “For the weddin’ it wint: buckled + the two up wid it for better or worse—an’ purty they looked, they + did, standin’ there in me cinch, an’ one hole left—aw yis, Pierre.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you give to Ida?” Pierre asked, with a little emphasis of the + branding-iron. + </p> + <p> + Macavoy got to his feet. “Ida! Ida!” said he. “Is that saddle for Ida? Is + it her and Hilton that’s to ate aff one dish togither? That rose o’ the + valley, that bird wid a song in her face and none an her tongue. That + daisy dot av a thing, steppin’ through the world like a sprig o’ glory. + Aw, Pierre, thim two!—an’ I’ve divil a scrap to give, good or bad. + I’ve nothin’ at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes an me back, an’ + thim hangin’ on the underbrush!”—giving a little twist to the twigs. + “An’ many a meal an’ many a dipper o’ drink she’s guv me, little smiles + dancin’ at her lips.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down in the doorway again, with his face turned towards Pierre, and + the back of his head in the sun. He was a picture of perfect health, + sumptuous, huge, a bull in beauty, the heart of a child looking out of his + eyes, but a sort of despair, too, in his bearing. + </p> + <p> + Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for a time, then he said + languidly: “Never mind your clothes, give yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yer tongue in yer cheek, me spot o’ vinegar. Give meself! What’s that + for? A purty weddin’ gift, says I? Handy thing to have in the house! Use + me for a clothes-horse, or shtand me in the garden for a fairy bower-aw + yis, wid a hole in me face that’d ate thim out o’ house and home!” + </p> + <p> + Pierre drew a piece of brown paper towards him, and wrote on it with a + burnt match. Presently he held it up. “Voila, my simple king, the thing + for you to do: a grand gift, and to cost you nothing now. Come, read it + out, and tell me what you think.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy took the paper, and in a large, judicial way, read slowly: + </p> + <p> + “On demand, for value received, I promise to pay to... IDA HILTON... or + order, meself, Tim Macavoy, standin’ seven foot three on me bare fut, wid + interest at nothin’ at all.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy ended with a loud smack of the lips. “McGuire!” he said, and + nothing more. + </p> + <p> + McGuire was his strongest expression. In the most important moments of his + career he had said it, and it sounded deep, strange, and more powerful + than many usual oaths. A moment later he said again “McGuire!” Then he + read the paper once more out loud. “What’s that, me Frinchman?” he asked. + “What Ballzeboob’s tricks are y’at now?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre was complacently eyeing his handiwork on the saddle. He now settled + back with his shoulders to the wall, and said: “See, then, it’s a little + promissory note for a wedding-gift to Ida. When she says some day, ‘Tim + Macavoy, I want you to do this or that, or to go here or there, or to sell + you or trade you, or use you for a clothes-horse, or a bridge over a + canyon, or to hold up a house, or blow out a prairie-fire, or be my second + husband,’ you shall say, ‘Here I am’; and you shall travel from Heaven to + Halifax, but you shall come at the call of this promissory.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre’s teeth glistened behind a smile as he spoke, and Macavoy broke + into a roar of laughter. “Black’s the white o’ yer eye,” he said at last, + “an’ a joke’s a joke. Seven fut three I am, an’ sound av wind an’ limb—an’ + a weddin’-gift to that swate rose o’ the valley! Aisy, aisy, Pierre. A bit + o’ foolin’ ‘twas ye put on the paper, but truth I’ll make it, me cock o’ + the walk. That’s me gift to her an’ Hilton, an’ no other. An’ a dab wid + red wax it shall have, an’ what more be the word o’ Freddy Tarlton the + lawyer?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a great man,” said Pierre with a touch of gentle irony, for his + natural malice had no play against the huge ex-king of his own making. + With these big creatures—he had connived with several in his time—he + had ever been superior, protective, making them to feel that they were as + children beside him. He looked at Macavoy musingly, and said to himself: + “Well, why not? If it is a joke, then it is a joke; if it is a thing to + make the world stand still for a minute sometime, so much the better. He + is all waste now. By the holy, he shall do it. It is amusing, and it may + be great by and by.” + </p> + <p> + Presently Pierre said aloud: “Well, my Macavoy, what will you do? Send + this good gift?” + </p> + <p> + “Aw yis, Pierre; I shtand by that from the crown av me head to the sole av + me fut sure. Face like a mornin’ in May, and hands like the tunes of an + organ, she has. Spakes wid a look av her eye and a twist av her purty lips + an’ swaying body, an’ talkin’ to you widout a word. Aw motion—motion—motion; + yis, that’s it. An’ I’ve seen her an tap av a hill wid the wind blowin’ + her hair free, and the yellow buds on the tree, and the grass green + beneath her feet, the world smilin’ betune her and the sun: pictures—pictures, + aw yis! Promissory notice on demand is it anny toime? Seven fut three on + me bare toes—but Father o’ Sin! when she calls I come, yis.” + </p> + <p> + “On your oath, Macavoy?” asked Pierre; “by the book av the Mass?” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy stood up straight till his head scraped the cobwebs between the + rafters, the wild indignation of a child in his eye. “D’ye think I’m a + thafe to stale me own word? Hut! I’ll break ye in two, ye wisp o’ straw, + if ye doubt me word to a lady. There’s me note av hand, and ye shall have + me fist on it, in writin’, at Freddy Tarlton’s office, wid a blotch av red + an’ the Queen’s head at the bottom. McGuire!” he said again, and paused, + puffing his lips through his beard. + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked at him a moment, then waving his fingers idly, said, “So, my + straw-breaker! Then tomorrow morning at ten you will fetch your + wedding-gift. But come so soon now to M’sieu’ Tarlton’s office, and we + will have it all as you say, with the red seal and the turn of your fist—yes. + Well, well, we travel far in the world, and sometimes we see strange + things, and no two strange things are alike—no; there is only one + Macavoy in the world, there was only one Shon McGann. Shon McGann was a + fine fool, but he did something at last, truly yes: Tim Macavoy, perhaps, + will do something at last on his own hook. Hey, I wonder!” He felt the + muscles of Macavoy’s arm musingly, and then laughed up in the giant’s + face. “Once I made you a king, my own, and you threw it all away; now I + make you a slave, and we shall see what you will do. Come along, for + M’sieu’ Tarlton.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy dropped a heavy hand on Pierre’s shoulder. “‘Tis hard to be a + king, Pierre, but ‘tis aisy to be a slave for the likes o’ her. I’d kiss + her dirty shoe sure!” + </p> + <p> + As they passed through the door, Pierre said, “Dis done, perhaps, when all + is done, she will sell you for old bones and rags. Then I will buy you, + and I will burn your bones and the rags, and I will scatter to the four + winds of the earth the ashes of a king, a slave, a fool, and an Irishman—truly!” + </p> + <p> + “Bedad, ye’ll have more earth in yer hands then, Pierre, than ye’ll ever + earn, and more heaven than ye’ll ever shtand in.” + </p> + <p> + Half an hour later they were in Freddy Tarlton’s office on the banks of + the Little Big Swan, which tumbled past, swelled by the first rain of the + early autumn. Freddy Tarlton, who had a gift of humour, entered into the + spirit of the thing, and treated it seriously; but in vain did he protest + that the large red seal with Her Majesty’s head on it was unnecessary; + Macavoy insisted, and wrote his name across it with a large indistinctness + worthy of a king. Before the night was over everybody at Guidon Hill, save + Hilton and Ida, knew what gift would come from Macavoy to the wedded pair. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + The next morning was almost painfully beautiful, so delicate in its + clearness, so exalted by the glory of the hills, so grand in the limitless + stretch of the green-brown prairie north and south. It was a day for God’s + creatures to meet in, and speed away, and having flown round the + boundaries of that spacious domain, to return again to the nest of home on + the large plateau between the sea and the stars. Gathered about Ida’s home + was everybody who lived within a radius of a hundred miles. In the large + front room all the presents were set: rich furs from the far north, + cunningly carved bowls, rocking-chairs made by hand, knives, cooking + utensils, a copy of Shakespeare in six volumes from the Protestant + missionary who performed the ceremony, a nugget of gold from the Long + Light River; and outside the door, a horse, Hilton’s own present to his + wife, on which was put Pierre’s saddle, with its silver mounting and Ida’s + name branded deep on pommel and flap. When Macavoy arrived, a cheer went + up, which was carried on waves of laughter into the house to Hilton and + Ida, who even then were listening to the first words of the brief service + which begins, “I charge you both if you do know any just cause or + impediment—” and so on. + </p> + <p> + They did not turn to see what it was, for just at that moment they + themselves were the very centre of the universe. Ida being deaf and dumb, + it was necessary to interpret to her the words of the service by signs, as + the missionary read it, and this was done by Pierre himself, the + half-breed Catholic, the man who had brought Hilton and Ida together, for + he and Ida had been old friends. After Father Corraine had taught her the + language of signs, Pierre had learned them from her, until at last his + gestures had become as vital as her own. The delicate precision of his + every movement, the suggestiveness of look and motion, were suited to a + language which was nearer to the instincts of his own nature than word of + mouth. All men did not trust Pierre, but all women did; with those he had + a touch of Machiavelli, with these he had no sign of Mephistopheles, and + few were the occasions in his life when he showed outward tenderness to + either: which was equally effective. He had learnt, or knew by instinct, + that exclusiveness as to men and indifference as to women are the greatest + influences on both. As he stood there, slowly interpreting to Ida, by + graceful allusive signs, the words of the service, one could not think + that behind his impassive face there was any feeling for the man or for + the woman. He had that disdainful smile which men acquire who are all + their lives aloof from the hopes of the hearthstone and acknowledge no + laws but their own. + </p> + <p> + More than once the eyes of the girl filled with tears, as the pregnancy of + some phrase in the service came home to her. Her face responded to + Pierre’s gestures, as do one’s nerves to the delights of good music, and + there was something so unique, so impressive in the ceremony, that the + laughter which had greeted Macavoy passed away, and a dead silence; + beginning from where the two stood, crept out until it covered all the + prairie. Nothing was heard except Hilton’s voice in strong tones saying, + “I take thee to be my wedded wife,” etc.; but when the last words of the + service were said, and the newmade bride turned to her husband’s embrace, + and a little sound of joy broke from her lips, there was plenty of noise + and laughter again, for Macavoy stood in the doorway, or rather outside + it, stooping to look in upon the scene. Someone had lent him the cinch of + a broncho and he had belted himself with it, no longer carrying his + clothes about “on the underbrush.” Hilton laughed and stretched out his + hand. “Come in, King,” he said, “come and wish us joy.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his way, and instantly was + stooping before the pair—for he could not stand upright in the room. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that’s pluckin’ the rose av the + valley, snatchin’ the stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o’ that! + Travel down I did yesterday from Fort Ste. Anne, and divil a word I knew + till Pierre hit me in the eye wid it last night—and no time for a + present, for a wedding-gift—no, aw no!” + </p> + <p> + Just here Ida reached up and touched him on the shoulder. He smiled down + on her, puffing and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to her, yet + knowing no word by signs to say; but he nodded his head at her, and he + patted Hilton’s shoulder, and he took their hands and joined them + together, hers on top of Hilton’s, and shook them in one of his own till + she almost winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who nodded in reply, + Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy to kiss—Macavoy, the idle, + ill-cared-for, boisterous giant. His face became red like that of a child + caught in an awkward act, and with an absurd shyness he stooped and + touched her cheek. Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, “Aw, the + rose o’ the valley, the pride o’ the wide wurruld! aw, the bloom o’ the + hills! I’d have kissed her dirty shoe. McQuire!” + </p> + <p> + A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear air of the prairie, and the + hills seemed to stir with the pleasure of life. Then it was that Macavoy, + following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly stopped beside the horse, drew + from his pocket the promissory note that Pierre had written, and said, + “Yis, but all the weddin’-gifts aren’t in. ‘Tis nothin’ I had to + give-divil a cent in the wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot for the + fire, or a bit av linin for the table; nothin’ but meself and me dirty + clothes, standin’ seven fut three an me bare toes. What was I to do? There + was only meself to give, so I give it free and hearty, and here it is wid + the Queen’s head an it, done in Mr. Tarlton’s office. Ye’d better had had + a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse, or a saddle, or a quart o’ brown + brandy; but such as it is I give it ye—I give it to the rose o’ the + valley and the star o’ the wide wurruld.” + </p> + <p> + In a loud voice he read the promissory note, and handed it to Ida. Men + laughed till there were tears in their eyes, and a keg of whisky was + opened; but somehow Ida did not laugh. She and Pierre had seen a serious + side to Macavoy’s gift: the childlike manliness in it. It went home to her + woman’s heart without a touch of ludicrousness, without a sound of + laughter. + </p> + <p> + III + </p> + <p> + After a time the interest in this wedding-gift declined at Fort Guidon, + and but three people remembered it with any singular distinctness—Ida, + Pierre, and Macavoy. Pierre was interested, for in his primitive mind he + knew that, however wild a promise, life is so wild in its events, there + comes the hour for redemption of all I O U’s. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, weeks, months, and even a couple of years passed, Macavoy and + Pierre coming and going, sometimes together, sometimes not, in all manner + of words at war, in all manner of fact at peace. And Ida, out of the + bounty of her nature, gave the two vagabonds a place at her fireside + whenever they chose to come. Perhaps, where speech was not given, a gift + of divination entered into her instead, and she valued what others found + useless, and held aloof from what others found good. She had powers which + had ever been the admiration of Guidon Hill. Birds and animals were her + friends—she called them her kinsmen. A peculiar sympathy joined + them; so that when, at last, she tamed a white wild duck, and made it do + the duties of a carrier-pigeon, no one thought it strange. + </p> + <p> + Up in the hills, beside the White Sun River, lived her sister and her + sister’s children; and, by and by, the duck carried messages back and + forth, so that when, in the winter, Ida’s health became delicate, she had + comfort in the solicitude and cheerfulness of her sister, and the gaiety + of the young birds of her nest, who sent Ida many a sprightly message and + tales of their good vagrancy in the hills. In these days Pierre and + Macavoy were little at the Post, save now and then to sit with Hilton + beside the fire, waiting for spring and telling tales. Upon Hilton had + settled that peaceful, abstracted expectancy which shows man at his best, + as he waits for the time when, through the half-lights of his fatherhood, + he shall see the broad fine dawn of motherhood spreading up the world—which, + all being said and done, is that place called Home. Something gentle came + over him while he grew stouter in body and in all other ways made a larger + figure among the people of the West. + </p> + <p> + As Pierre said, whose wisdom was more to be trusted than his general + morality, “It is strange that most men think not enough of themselves till + a woman shows them how. But it is the great wonder that the woman does not + despise him for it. Quel caractere! She has so often to show him his way + like a babe, and yet she says to him, Mon grand homme! my master! my lord! + Pshaw! I have often thought that women are half saints, half fools, and + men half fools, half rogues. But Quelle vie!—what life! without a + woman you are half a man; with one you are bound to a single spot in the + world, you are tied by the leg, your wing is clipped—you cannot have + all. Quelle vie—what life!” + </p> + <p> + To this Macavoy said: “Spit-spat! But what the devil good does all yer + thinkin’ do ye, Pierre? It’s argufy here and argufy there, an’ while yer + at that, me an’ the rest av us is squeezin’ the fun out o’ life. Aw, go + ‘long wid ye. Y’are only a bit o’ hell and grammar, annyway. Wid all yer + cuttin’ and carvin’ things to see the internals av thim, I’d do more to + the call av a woman’s finger than for all the logic and knowalogy y’ ever + chewed—an’ there y’are, me little tailor o’ jur’sprudince!” + </p> + <p> + “To the finger call of Hilton’s wife, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre’s enigmatical tone meant. A wild + light showed in his eyes, and his tongue blundered out: “Yis, Hilton’s + wife’s finger, or a look av her eye, or nothin’ at all. Aisy, aisy, ye + wasp! Ye’d go stalkin’ divils in hell for her yerself, so ye would. But + the tongue av ye—but, it’s gall to the tip.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe, my king. But I’d go hunting because I wanted; you because you + must. You’re a slave to come and to go, with a Queen’s seal on the + promissory.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy leaned back and roared. “Aw, that! The rose o’ the valley—the + joy o’ the wurruld! S’t, Pierre—” his voice grew softer on a sudden, + as a fresh thought came to him—“did y’ ever think that the child + might be dumb like the mother?” + </p> + <p> + This was a day in the early spring, when the snows were melting in the + hills, and freshets were sweeping down the valleys far and near. That + night a warm heavy rain came on, and in the morning every stream and river + was swollen to twice its size. The mountains seemed to have stripped + themselves of snow, and the vivid sun began at once to colour the + foothills with green. As Pierre and Macavoy stood at their door, looking + out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy suddenly said: “Aw, look, + look, Pierre—her white duck off to the nest on Champak Hill!” + </p> + <p> + They both shaded their eyes with their hands. Circling round two or three + times above the Post, the duck then stretched out its neck to the west, + and floated away beyond Guidon Hill, and was hid from view. + </p> + <p> + Pierre, without a word, began cleaning his rifle, while Macavoy smoked, + and sat looking into the distance, surveying the sweet warmth and light. + His face blossomed with colour, and the look of his eyes was that of an + irresponsible child. Once or twice he smiled and puffed in his beard, but + perhaps that was involuntary, or was, maybe, a vague reflection of his + dreams, themselves most vague, for he was only soaking in sun and air and + life. + </p> + <p> + Within an hour they saw the wild duck-again passing the crest of Guidon, + and they watched it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling the + gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams. But presently they were + altogether roused, the gun was put away, and both were on their feet; for + after the pigeon arrived there was a stir at the Post, and Hilton could be + seen running from the store to his house, not far away. + </p> + <p> + “Something’s wrong there,” said Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “D’ye think ‘twas the duck brought it?” asked Macavoy. + </p> + <p> + Without a word Pierre started away towards the Post, Macavoy following. As + they did so, a half-breed boy came from the house, hurrying towards them. + </p> + <p> + Inside the house Hilton’s wife lay in her bed, her great hour coming on + before the time, because of ill news from beyond the Guidon. There was + with her an old Frenchwoman, who herself, in her time, had brought many + children into the world, whose heart brooded tenderly, if uncouthly, over + the dumb girl. She it was who had handed to Hilton the paper the wild duck + had brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in a faint on the floor. + </p> + <p> + The message that had felled the young wife was brief and awful. A + cloud-burst had fallen on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and a + part of this part had swept down into the path that led to the little + house, having been stopped by some falling trees and a great boulder. It + blocked the only way to escape above, and beneath, the river was creeping + up to sweep away the little house. So, there the mother and her children + waited (the father was in the farthest north), facing death below and + above. The wild duck had carried the tale in its terrible simplicity. The + last words were, “There mayn’t be any help for me and my sweet chicks, but + I am still hoping, and you must send a man or many. But send soon, for we + are cut off, and the end may come any hour.” + </p> + <p> + Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post, and knew from Hilton all there + was to know. At once Pierre began to gather men, though what one or many + could do none could say. Eight white men and three Indians watched the + wild duck sailing away again from the bedroom window where Ida lay, to + carry a word of comfort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida asked for + Macavoy, and he was brought to her bedroom by Hilton. He saw a pale, + almost unearthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling with a coming + agony, looking up at him; and presently two trembling hands made those + mystic signs which are the primal language of the soul. Hilton interpreted + to him this: “I have sent for you. There is no man so big or strong as you + in the north. I did not know that I should ever ask you to redeem the + note. I want my gift, and I will give you your paper with the Queen’s head + on it. Those little lives, those pretty little dears, you will not see + them die. If there is a way, any way, you will save them. Sometimes one + man can do what twenty cannot. You were my wedding-gift: I claim you now.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, who laid the piece of brown + paper in Macavoy’s hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as if it + were a fragile bit of glass, something that his huge fingers might crush + by touching. Then he reached over and laid it on the bed beside her and + said, looking Hilton in the eyes, “Tell her, the slip av a saint she is, + if the breakin’ av me bones, or the lettin’ av me blood’s what’ll set all + right at Champak Hill, let her mind be aisy—aw yis!” + </p> + <p> + Soon afterwards they were all on their way—all save Hilton, whose + duty was beside this other danger, for the old nurse said that, “like as + not,” her life would hang upon the news from Champak Hill; and if ill + came, his place was beside the speechless traveller on the Brink. + </p> + <p> + In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top of Champak Hill, looking + down. There stood the little house, as it were, between two dooms. Even + Pierre’s face became drawn and pale as he saw what a very few hours or + minutes might do. Macavoy had spoken no word, had answered no question + since they had left the Post. There was in his eye the large seriousness, + the intentness which might be found in the face of a brave boy, who had + not learned fear, and yet saw a vast ditch of danger at which he must + leap. There was ever before him the face of the dumb wife; there was in + his ears the sound of pain that had followed him from Hilton’s house out + into the brilliant day. + </p> + <p> + The men stood helpless, and looked at each other. They could not say to + the river that it must rise no farther, and they could not go to the + house, nor let a rope down, and there was the crumbled moiety of the hill + which blocked the way to the house: elsewhere it was sheer precipice + without trees. + </p> + <p> + There was no corner in these hills that Macavoy and Pierre did not know, + and at last, when despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, having + spoken a low word to Pierre, said: “There’s wan way, an’ maybe I can an’ + maybe I can’t, but I’m fit to try. I’ll go up the river to an aisy p’int a + mile above, get in, and drift down to a p’int below there, thin climb up + and loose the stuff.” + </p> + <p> + Every man present knew the double danger: the swift headlong river, and + the sudden rush of rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the side of + the narrow ravine opposite the little house. Macavoy had nothing to say to + the head-shakes of the others, and they did not try to dissuade him; for + women and children were in the question, and there they were below beside + the house, the children gathered round the mother, she waiting—waiting. + </p> + <p> + Macavoy, stripped to the waist, and carrying only a hatchet and a coil of + rope tied round him, started away alone up the river. The others waited, + now and again calling comfort to the woman below, though their words could + not be heard. About half an hour passed, and then someone called out: + “Here he comes!” Presently they could see the rough head and the bare + shoulders of the giant in the wild churning stream. There was only one + point where he could get a hold on the hillside—the jutting bole of + a tree just beneath them, and beneath the dyke of rock and trees. + </p> + <p> + It was a great moment. The current swayed him out, but he plunged forward, + catching at the bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held him an + instant, as he was swung round, then it snapt. But the other hand clenched + the bole, and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, Macavoy drew himself + up. After that they could not see him. He alone was studying the + situation. + </p> + <p> + He found the key-rock to the dyked slide of earth. To loosen it was to + divert the slide away, or partly away, from the little house. But it could + not be loosened from above, if at all, and he himself would be in the path + of the destroying hill. + </p> + <p> + “Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy,” he said to himself. “It’s the woman and the + darlins av her, an’ the rose o’ the valley down there at the Post!” + </p> + <p> + A minute afterwards, having chopped down a hickory sapling, he began to + pry at the boulder which held the mass. Presently a tree came crashing + down, and a small rush of earth followed it, and the hearts of the men + above and the woman and children below stood still for an instant. An hour + passed as Macavoy toiled with a strange careful skill and a superhuman + concentration. His body was all shining with sweat, and sweat dripped like + water from his forehead. His eyes were on the keyrock and the pile, alert, + measuring, intent. At last he paused. He looked round at the hills-down at + the river, up at the sky-humanity was shut away from his sight. He was + alone. A long hot breath broke from his pressed lips, stirring his big red + beard. Then he gave a call, a long call that echoed through the hills + weirdly and solemnly. + </p> + <p> + It reached the ears of those above like a greeting from an outside world. + They answered, “Right, Macavoy!” + </p> + <p> + Years afterwards these men told how then there came in reply one word, + ringing roundly through the hills—the note and symbol of a crisis, + the fantastic cipher of a soul: + </p> + <p> + “M’Guire!” + </p> + <p> + There was a loud booming sound, the dyke was loosed, the ravine split into + the swollen stream its choking mouthful of earth and rock; and a minute + afterwards the path was clear to the top of Champak Hill. To it came the + unharmed children and their mother, who, from the warm peak sent the wild + duck “to the rose o’ the valley,” which, till the message came, was + trembling on the stem of life. But Joy, that marvellous healer, kept it + blooming with a little Eden bird nestling near, whose happy tongue was + taught in after years to tell of the gift of the Simple King; who had + redeemed, on demand, the promissory note for ever. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MALACHI + </h2> + <p> + “He’ll swing just the same to-morrow. Exit Malachi!” said Freddy Tarlton + gravely. + </p> + <p> + The door suddenly opened on the group of gossips, and a man stepped inside + and took the only vacant seat near the fire. He glanced at none, but + stretched out his hands to the heat, looking at the coals with drooping + introspective eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Exit Malachi,” he said presently in a soft ironical voice, but did not + look up. + </p> + <p> + “By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you spring from?” asked Tarlton + genially. + </p> + <p> + “The wind bloweth where it listeth, and—” Pierre responded, with a + little turn of his fingers. + </p> + <p> + “And the wind doesn’t tell where it’s been, but that’s no reason Pierre + shouldn’t,” urged the other. + </p> + <p> + Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. “He was a tough,” said + a voice from the crowd. “To-morrow he’ll get the breakfast he’s paid for.” + Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with a cold inquisitive stare. + “Mon Dieu!” he said presently, “here’s this Gohawk playing preacher. What + do you know of Malachi, Gohawk? What do any of you know about Malachi? A + little of this, a little of that, a drink here, a game of euchre there, a + ride after cattle, a hunt behind Guidon Hill!—But what is that? You + have heard the cry of the eagle, you have seen him carry off a lamb, you + have had a pot-shot at him, but what do you know of the eagle’s nest? Mais + non. + </p> + <p> + “The lamb is one thing, the nest is another. You don’t know the eagle till + you’ve been there. And you, Gohawk, would not understand, if you saw the + nest. Such cancan!” + </p> + <p> + “Shut your mouth!” broke out Gohawk. “D’ye think I’m going to stand your—” + </p> + <p> + Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm. “Keep quiet, Gohawk. What good will + it do?” Then he said, “Tell us about the nest, Pierre; they’re hanging him + for the lamb in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Who spoke for him at the trial?” Pierre asked. + </p> + <p> + “I did,” said Tarlton. “I spoke as well as I could, but the game was dead + against him from the start. The sheriff was popular, and young; young—that + was the thing; handsome too, and the women, of course! It was sure from + the start; besides, Malachi would say nothing—didn’t seem to care.” + </p> + <p> + “No, not to care,” mused Pierre. “What did you say for him to the jury—I + mean the devil of a thing to make them sit up and think, ‘Poor Malachi!’—like + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Best speech y’ever heard,” Gohawk interjected; “just emptied the words + out, split ‘em like peas, by gol! till he got to one place right before + the end. Then he pulled up sudden, and it got so quiet you could ‘a heard + a pin drop. ‘Gen’lemen of the jury,’ says Freddy Tarlton here—gen’lemen, + by gol! all that lot—Lagan and the rest! ‘Gen’lemen of the jury,’ he + says, ‘be you danged well sure that you’re at one with God A’mighty in + this; that you’ve got at the core of justice here; that you’ve got + evidence to satisfy Him who you’ve all got to satisfy some day, or git + out. Not evidence as to shootin’, but evidence as to what that shootin’ + meant, an’ whether it was meant to kill, an’ what for. The case is like + this, gen’lemen of the jury,’ says Freddy Tarlton here. ‘Two men are in a + street alone. There’s a shot, out comes everybody, and sees Fargo the + sheriff laid along the ground, his mouth in the dust, and a full-up gun in + his fingers. Not forty feet away stands Malachi with a gun smokin’ in his + fist. It seems to be the opinion that it was cussedness—just + cussedness—that made Malachi turn the sheriff’s boots to the sun. + For Malachi was quarrelsome. I’ll give you a quarter on that. And the + sheriff was mettlesome, used to have high spirits, like as if he’s lift + himself over the fence with his bootstraps. So when Malachi come and saw + the sheriff steppin’ round in his paten’ leathers, it give him the needle, + and he got a bead on him—and away went Sheriff Fargo—right + away! That seems to be the sense of the public.’ And he stops again, soft + and quick, and looks the twelve in the eyes at once. ‘But,’ says Freddy + Tarlton here, ‘are you goin’ to hang a man on the little you know? Or are + you goin’ to credit him with somethin’ of what you don’t know? You haint + got the inside of this thing, and Malachi doesn’t let you know it, and God + keeps quiet. But be danged well sure that you’ve got the bulge on iniquity + here; for gen’lemen with pistols out in the street is one thing, and + sittin’ weavin’ a rope in a court-room for a man’s neck is another thing,’ + says Freddy Tarlton here. ‘My client has refused to say one word this or + that way, but don’t be sure that Some One that knows the inside of things + won’t speak for him in the end.’ Then he turns and looks at Malachi, and + Malachi was standin’ still and steady like a tree, but his face was white, + and sweat poured on his forehead. ‘If God has no voice to be heard for my + client in this court-room to-day, is there no one on earth—no man or + woman—who can speak for one who won’t speak for himself?’ says + Freddy Tarlton here. Then, by gol! for the first time Malachi opened. + ‘There’s no one,’ he says. ‘The speakin’ is all for the sheriff. But I + spoke once, and the sheriff didn’t answer.’ Not a bit of beg-yer-pardon in + it. It struck cold. ‘I leave his case in the hands of twelve true men,’ + says Freddy Tarlton here, and he sits down.” + </p> + <p> + “So they said he must walk the air?” suggested Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “Without leavin’ their seats,” someone added instantly. + </p> + <p> + “So. But that speech of ‘Freddy Tarlton here’?” “It was worth twelve + drinks to me, no more, and nothing at all to Malachi,” said Tarlton. “When + I said I’d come to him to-night to cheer him up, he said he’d rather + sleep. The missionary, too, he can make nothing of him. ‘I don’t need + anyone here,’ he says. ‘I eat this off my own plate.’ And that’s the end + of Malachi.” + </p> + <p> + “Because there was no one to speak for him—eh? Well, well.” + </p> + <p> + “If he’d said anything that’d justify the thing—make it a + manslaughter business or a quarrel—then! But no, not a word, up or + down, high or low. Exit Malachi!” rejoined Freddy Tarlton sorrowfully. “I + wish he’d given me half a chance.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I’d been there,” said Pierre, taking a match from Gohawk, and + lighting his cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “To hear his speech?” asked Gohawk, nodding towards Tarlton. + </p> + <p> + “To tell the truth about it all. T’sh, you bats, you sheep, what have you + in your skulls? When a man will not speak, will not lie to gain a case for + his lawyer—or save himself, there is something! Now, listen to me, + and I will tell you the story of Malachi. Then you shall judge. + </p> + <p> + “I never saw such a face as that girl had down there at Lachine in Quebec. + I knew her when she was a child, and I knew Malachi when he was on the + river with the rafts, the foreman of a gang. He had a look all open then + as the sun—yes. Happy? Yes, as happy as a man ought to be. Well, the + mother of the child died, and Malachi alone was left to take care of the + little Norice. He left the river and went to work in the mills, so that he + might be with the child; and when he got to be foreman there he used to + bring her to the mill. He had a basket swung for her just inside the mill + not far from him, right where she was in the shade; but if she stretched + out her hand it would be in the sun. I’ve seen a hundred men turn to look + at her where she swung, singing to herself, and then chuckle to themselves + afterwards as they worked. + </p> + <p> + “When Trevoor, the owner, come one day, and saw her, he swore, and was + going to sack Malachi, but the child—that little Norice—leaned + over the basket, and offered him an apple. He looked for a minute, then he + reached up, took the apple, turned round, and went out of the mill without + a word—so. Next month when he come he walked straight to her, and + handed up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle. ‘That’s to call me + when you want me,’ he said, as he put the whistle to her lips, and then he + put the gold string of it round her neck. She was a wise little thing, + that Norice, and noticed things. I don’t believe that Trevoor or Malachi + ever knew how sweet was the smell of the fresh sawdust till she held it to + their noses; and it was she that had the saws—all sizes—start + one after the other, making so strange a tune. She made up a little song + about fairies and others to sing to that tune. And no one ever thought + much about Indian Island, off beyond the sweating, baking piles of lumber, + and the blistering logs and timbers in the bay, till she told stories + about it. Sure enough, when you saw the shut doors and open windows of + those empty houses, all white without in the sun and dark within, and not + a human to be seen, you could believe almost anything. You can think how + proud Malachi was. She used to get plenty of presents from the men who had + no wives or children to care for—little silver and gold things as + well as others. She was fond of them, but no, not vain. She loved the gold + and silver for their own sake.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre paused. “I knew a youngster once,” said Gohawk, “that—” + </p> + <p> + Pierre waved his hand. “I am not through, M’sieu’ Gohawk the talker. Years + went on. Now she took care of the house of Malachi. She wore the whistle + that Trevoor gave her. He kept saying to her still, ‘If ever you need me, + little Norice, blow it, and I will come.’ He was droll, that M’sieu’ + Trevoor, at times. Well, she did not blow, but still he used to come every + year, and always brought her something. One year he brought his nephew, a + young fellow of about twenty-three. She did not whistle for him either, + but he kept on coming. That was the beginning of ‘Exit Malachi.’ The man + was clever and bad, the girl believing and good. He was young, but he knew + how to win a woman’s heart. When that is done, there is nothing more to do—she + is yours for good or evil; and if a man, through a woman’s love, makes her + to sin, even his mother cannot be proud of him-no. But the man married + Norice, and took her away to Madison, down in Wisconsin. Malachi was left + alone—Malachi and Trevoor, for Trevoor felt towards her as a father. + </p> + <p> + “Alors, sorrow come to the girl, for her husband began to play cards and + to drink, and he lost much money. There was the trouble—the two + together. They lived in a hotel. One day a lady missed a diamond necklace + from her room. Norice had been with her the evening before. Norice come + into her own room the next afternoon, and found detectives searching. In + her own jewel-case, which was tucked away in the pocket of an old dress, + was found the necklace. She was arrested. She said nothing—for she + waited for her husband, who was out of town that day. He only come in time + to see her in court next morning. She did not deny anything; she was + quiet, like Malachi. The man played his part well. He had hid the necklace + where he thought it would be safe, but when it was found, he let the wife + take the blame—a little innocent thing. People were sorry for them + both. She was sent to jail. Her father was away in the Rocky Mountains, + and he did not hear; Trevoor was in Europe. The husband got a divorce, and + was gone. Norice was in jail for over a year, and then she was set free, + for her health went bad, and her mind was going, they thought. She did not + know till she come out that she was divorced. Then she nearly died. But + then Trevoor come.” + </p> + <p> + Freddy Tarlton’s hands were cold with excitement, and his fingers trembled + so he could hardly light a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, go on, Pierre,” he said huskily. + </p> + <p> + “Trevoor said to her—he told me this himself—‘Why did you not + whistle for me, Norice? A word would have brought me from Europe.’ ‘No one + could help me, no one at all,’ she answered. Then Trevoor said, ‘I know + who did it, for he has robbed me too.’ She sank in a heap on the floor. ‘I + could have borne it and anything for him, if he hadn’t divorced me,’ she + said. Then they cleared her name before the world. But where was the man? + No one knew. At last Malachi, in the Rocky Mountains, heard of her + trouble, for Norice wrote to him, but told him not to do the man any harm, + if he ever found him—ah, a woman, a woman!... But Malachi met the + man one day at Guidon Hill, and shot him in the street.” + </p> + <p> + “Fargo the sheriff!” roared half-a-dozen voices. “Yes; he had changed his + name, had come up here, and because he was clever and spent money, and had + a pull on someone,—got it at cards perhaps,—he was made + sheriff.” + </p> + <p> + “In God’s name, why didn’t Malachi speak?” said Tarlton; “why didn’t he + tell me this?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he and I had our own plans. The one evidence he wanted was + Norice. If she would come to him in his danger, and in spite of his + killing the man, good. If not, then he would die. Well, I went to find her + and fetch her. I found her. There was no way to send word, so we had to + come on as fast as we could. We have come just in time.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say, Pierre, that she’s here?” said Gohawk. + </p> + <p> + Pierre waved his hand emphatically. “And so we came on with a pardon.” + </p> + <p> + Every man was on his feet, every man’s tongue was loosed, and each ordered + liquor for Pierre, and asked him where the girl was. Freddy Tarlton wrung + his hand, and called a boy to go to his rooms and bring three bottles of + wine, which he had kept for two years, to drink when he had won his first + big case. + </p> + <p> + Gohawk was importunate. “Where is the girl, Pierre?” he urged. + </p> + <p> + “Such a fool as you are, Gohawk! She is with her father.” + </p> + <p> + A half-hour later, in a large sitting-room, Freddy Tarlton was making + eloquent toasts over the wine. As they all stood drinking to Pierre, the + door opened from the hall-way, and Malachi stood before them. At his + shoulder was a face, wistful, worn, yet with a kind of happiness too; and + the eyes had depths which any man might be glad to drown his heart in. + </p> + <p> + Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe or awkwardness fell on the + group at the table. + </p> + <p> + But Norice stepped forward a little, and said: “May we come in?” + </p> + <p> + In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side, and had her by the hand, her + and her father, drawing them over. + </p> + <p> + His ardent, admiring look gave Norice thought for many a day. + </p> + <p> + And that night Pierre made an accurate prophecy. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE + </h2> + <p> + When Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it was so called, Pierre said: + “Because of the Great Slave;” and then paused. + </p> + <p> + Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his whims. If he wished to tell, he + would in his own time; if not, nothing could draw it from him. It was + nearly an hour before Pierre, eased off from the puzzle he was solving + with bits of paper and obliged Tybalt. He began as if they had been + speaking the moment before: + </p> + <p> + “They have said it is legend, but I know better. I have seen the records + of the Company, and it is all there. I was at Fort O’Glory once, and in a + box two hundred years old the factor and I found it. There were other + papers, and some of them had large red seals, and a name scrawled along + the end of the page.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre shook his head, as if in contented musing. He was a born + story-teller. Tybalt was aching with interest, for he scented a thing of + note. + </p> + <p> + “How did any of those papers, signed with a scrawl, begin?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “‘To our dearly-beloved,’ or something like that,” answered Pierre. “There + were letters also. Two of them were full of harsh words, and these were + signed with the scrawl.” + </p> + <p> + “What was that scrawl?” asked Tybalt. + </p> + <p> + Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two words with his finger. “Like + that,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and then drew a long breath. + “Charles Rex,” he said, hardly above his breath. + </p> + <p> + Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. “That name was droll, eh?” + </p> + <p> + Tybalt’s blood was tingling with the joy of discovery. “It is a great + name,” he said shortly. + </p> + <p> + “The Slave was great—the Indians said so at the last.” + </p> + <p> + “But that was not the name of the Slave?” + </p> + <p> + “Mais non. Who said so! Charles Rex—like that! was the man who wrote + the letters.” + </p> + <p> + “To the Great Slave?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre made a gesture of impatience. “Very sure.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are those letters now?” + </p> + <p> + “With the Governor of the Company.” Tybalt cut the tobacco for his pipe + savagely. “You’d have liked one of those papers?” asked Pierre + provokingly. + </p> + <p> + “I’d give five hundred dollars for one,” broke out Tybalt. + </p> + <p> + Pierre lifted his eyebrows. “T’sh, what’s the good of five hundred dollars + up here? What would you do with a letter like that?” + </p> + <p> + Tybalt laughed with a touch of irony, for Pierre was clearly “rubbing it + in.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps for a book?” gently asked Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a pity. But there is a way.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Put me in the book. Then—” + </p> + <p> + “How does that touch the case?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre shrugged a shoulder gently, for he thought Tybalt was unusually + obtuse. Tybalt thought so himself before the episode ended. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” he said, with clouded brow, but interested eye. Then, as if with + sudden thought: “To whom were the letters addressed, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” was the reply. “One letter said: ‘Good cousin, We are evermore + glad to have thee and thy most excelling mistress near us. So, fail us not + at our cheerful doings, yonder at Highgate.’ Another—a year after—said: + ‘Cousin, for the sweetening of our mind, get thee gone into some distant + corner of our pasturage—the farthest doth please us most. We would + not have thee on foreign ground, for we bear no ill-will to our brother + princes, and yet we would not have thee near our garden of good loyal + souls, for thou hast a rebel heart and a tongue of divers tunes. Thou + lovest not the good old song of duty to thy prince. Obeying us, thy lady + shall keep thine estates untouched; failing obedience, thou wilt make more + than thy prince unhappy. Fare thee well.’ That was the way of two + letters,” said Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “How do you remember so?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre shrugged a shoulder again. “It is easy with things like that.” + </p> + <p> + “But word for word?” + </p> + <p> + “I learned it word for word.” + </p> + <p> + “Now for the story of the Lake—if you won’t tell me the name of the + man.” + </p> + <p> + “The name afterwards-perhaps. Well, he came to that farthest corner of the + pasturage, to the Hudson’s Bay country, two hundred years ago. What do you + think? Was he so sick of all, that he would go so far he could never get + back? Maybe those ‘cheerful doings’ at Highgate, eh? And the lady—who + can tell?” + </p> + <p> + Tybalt seized Pierre’s arm. “You know more. Damnation, can’t you see I’m + on needles to hear? Was there anything in the letters about the lady? + Anything more than you’ve told?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre liked no man’s hand on him. He glanced down at the eager fingers, + and said coldly: + </p> + <p> + “You are a great man; you can tell a story in many ways, but I in one way + alone, and that is my way—mais oui!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, take your own time.” + </p> + <p> + “Bien. I got the story from two heads. If you hear a thing like that from + Indians, you call it ‘legend’; if from the Company’s papers, you call it + ‘history.’ Well, in this there is not much difference. The papers tell + precise the facts; the legend gives the feeling, is more true. How can you + judge the facts if you don’t know the feeling? No! what is bad turns good + sometimes, when you know the how, the feeling, the place. Well, this story + of the Great Slave—eh?... There is a race of Indians in the far + north who have hair so brown like yours, m’sieu’, and eyes no darker. It + is said they are of those that lived at the Pole, before the sea swamped + the Isthmus, and swallowed up so many islands. So. In those days the fair + race came to the south for the first time, that is, far below the Circle. + They had their women with them. I have seen those of to-day: fine and + tall, with breasts like apples, and a cheek to tempt a man like you, + m’sieu’; no grease in the hair—no, M’sieu’ Tybalt.” + </p> + <p> + Tybalt sat moveless under the obvious irony, but his eyes were fixed + intently on Pierre, his mind ever travelling far ahead of the tale. + </p> + <p> + “Alors: the ‘good cousin’ of Charles Rex, he made a journey with two men + to the Far-off Metal River, and one day this tribe from the north come on + his camp. It was summer, and they were camping in the Valley of the Young + Moon, more sweet, they say, than any in the north. The Indians cornered + them. There was a fight, and one of the Company’s men was killed, and five + of the other. But when the king of the people of the Pole saw that the + great man was fair of face, he called for the fight to stop. + </p> + <p> + “There was a big talk all by signs, and the king said for the great man to + come and be one with them, for they liked his fair face—their + forefathers were fair like him. He should have the noblest of their women + for his wife, and be a prince among them. He would not go: so they drew + away again and fought. A stone-axe brought the great man to the ground. He + was stunned, not killed. Then the other man gave up, and said he would be + one of them if they would take him. They would have killed him but for one + of their women. She said that he should live to tell them tales of the + south country and the strange people, when they came again to their + camp-fires. So they let him live, and he was one of them. But the chief + man, because he was stubborn and scorned them, and had killed the son of + their king in the fight, they made a slave, and carried him north a + captive, till they came to this lake—the Lake of the Great Slave. + </p> + <p> + “In all ways they tried him, but he would not yield, neither to wear their + dress nor to worship their gods. He was robbed of his clothes, of his + gold-handled dagger, his belt of silk and silver, his carbine with rich + chasing, and all, and he was among them almost naked,—it was summer, + as I said, yet defying them. He was taller by a head than any of them, and + his white skin rippled in the sun like soft steel.” + </p> + <p> + Tybalt was inclined to ask Pierre how he knew all this, but he held his + peace. Pierre, as if divining his thoughts, continued: + </p> + <p> + “You ask how I know these things. Very good: there are the legends, and + there were the papers of the Company. The Indians tried every way, but it + was no use; he would have nothing to say to them. At last they came to + this lake. Now something great occurred. The woman who had been the wife + of the king’s dead son, her heart went out in love of the Great Slave; but + he never looked at her. One day there were great sports, for it was the + feast of the Red Star. The young men did feats of strength, here on this + ground where we sit. The king’s wife called out for the Great Slave to + measure strength with them all. He would not stir. The king commanded him; + still he would not, but stood among them silent and looking far away over + their heads. At last, two young men of good height and bone threw arrows + at his bare breast. The blood came in spots. Then he gave a cry through + his beard, and was on them like a lion. He caught them, one in each arm, + swung them from the ground, and brought their heads together with a crash, + breaking their skulls, and dropped them at his feet. Catching up a long + spear, he waited for the rest. But they did not come, for, with a loud + voice, the king told them to fall back, and went and felt the bodies of + the men. One of them was dead; the other was his second son—he would + live. + </p> + <p> + “‘It is a great deed,’ said the king, ‘for these were no children, but + strong men.’ + </p> + <p> + “Then again he offered the Great Slave women to marry, and fifty tents of + deerskin for the making of a village. But the Great Slave said no, and + asked to be sent back to Fort O’Glory. + </p> + <p> + “The king refused. But that night, as he slept in his tent, the girl-widow + came to him, waked him, and told him to follow her. He came forth, and she + led him softly through the silent camp to that wood which we see over + there. He told her she need not go on. Without a word, she reached over + and kissed him on the breast. Then he understood. He told her that she + could not come with him, for there was that lady in England—his + wife, eh? But never mind, that will come. He was too great to save his + life, or be free at the price. Some are born that way. They have their own + commandments, and they keep them. + </p> + <p> + “He told her that she must go back. She gave a little cry, and sank down + at his feet, saying that her life would be in danger if she went back. + </p> + <p> + “Then he told her to come, for it was in his mind to bring her to Fort + O’Glory, where she could marry an Indian there. But now she would not go + with him, and turned towards the village. A woman is a strange creature—yes, + like that! He refused to go and leave her. She was in danger, and he would + share it, whatever it might be. So, though she prayed him not, he went + back with her; and when she saw that he would go in spite of all, she was + glad: which is like a woman. + </p> + <p> + “When he entered the tent again, he guessed her danger, for he stepped + over the bodies of two dead men. She had killed them. As she turned at the + door to go to her own tent, another woman faced her. It was the wife of + the king, who had suspected, and had now found out. Who can tell what it + was? Jealousy, perhaps. The Great Slave could tell, maybe, if he could + speak, for a man always knows when a woman sets him high. Anyhow, that was + the way it stood. In a moment the girl was marched back to her tent, and + all the camp heard a wicked lie of the widow of the king’s son. + </p> + <p> + “To it there was an end after the way of their laws. + </p> + <p> + “The woman should die by fire, and the man, as the king might will. So + there was a great gathering in the place where we are, and the king sat + against that big white stone, which is now as it was then. Silence was + called, and they brought the girl-widow forth. The king spoke: + </p> + <p> + “‘Thou who hadst a prince for thy husband, didst go in the night to the + tent of the slave who killed thy husband; whereby thou also becamest a + slave, and didst shame the greatness which was given thee. Thou shalt die, + as has been set in our laws.’ + </p> + <p> + “The girl-widow rose, and spoke. ‘I did not know, O king, that he whom + thou madest a slave slew my husband, the prince of our people, and thy + son. That was not told me. But had I known it, still would I have set him + free, for thy son was killed in fair battle, and this man deserves not + slavery or torture. I did seek the tent of the Great Slave, and it was to + set him free—no more. For that did I go, and, for the rest, my soul + is open to the Spirit Who Sees. I have done naught, and never did, nor + ever will, that might shame a king, or the daughter of a king, or the wife + of a king, or a woman. If to set a great captive free is death for me, + then am I ready. I will answer all pure women in the far Camp of the Great + Fires without fear. There is no more, O king, that I may say, but this: + she who dies by fire, being of noble blood, may choose who shall light the + faggots—is it not so?’ + </p> + <p> + “Then the king replied: ‘It is so. Such is our law.’ + </p> + <p> + “There was counselling between the king and his oldest men, and so long + were they handling the matter backwards and forwards that it seemed she + might go free. But the king’s wife, seeing, came and spoke to the king and + the others, crying out for the honour of her dead son; so that in a moment + of anger they all cried out for death. + </p> + <p> + “When the king said again to the girl that she must die by fire, she + answered: ‘It is as the gods will. But it is so, as I said, that I may + choose who shall light the fires?’ + </p> + <p> + “The king answered yes, and asked her whom she chose. She pointed towards + the Great Slave. And all, even the king and his councillors, wondered, for + they knew little of the heart of women. What is a man with a matter like + that? Nothing—nothing at all. They would have set this for + punishment: that she should ask for it was beyond them. Yes, even the + king’s wife—it was beyond her. But the girl herself, see you, was it + not this way?—If she died by the hand of him she loved, then it + would be easy, for she could forget the pain, in the thought that his + heart would ache for her, and that at the very last he might care, and she + should see it. She was great in her way also—that girl, two hundred + years ago. + </p> + <p> + “Alors, they led her a little distance off,—there is the spot, where + you see the ground heave a little, and the Great Slave was brought up. The + king told him why the girl was to die. He went like stone, looking, + looking at them. He knew that the girl’s heart was like a little child’s, + and the shame and cruelty of the thing froze him silent for a minute, and + the colour flew from his face to here and there on his body, as a flame on + marble. The cords began to beat and throb in his neck and on his forehead, + and his eyes gave out fire like flint on an arrow-head. + </p> + <p> + “Then he began to talk. He could not say much, for he knew so little of + their language. But it was ‘No!’ every other word. ‘No—no—no—no!’ + the words ringing from his chest. ‘She is good!’ he said. ‘The other-no!’ + and he made a motion with his hand. ‘She must not die—no! Evil? It + is a lie! I will kill each man that says it, one by one, if he dares come + forth. She tried to save me—well?’ Then he made them know that he + was of high place in a far country, and that a man like him would not tell + a lie. That pleased the king, for he was proud, and he saw that the Slave + was of better stuff than himself. Besides, the king was a brave man, and + he had strength, and more than once he had laid his hand on the chest of + the other, as one might on a grand animal. Perhaps, even then, they might + have spared the girl was it not for the queen. She would not hear of it. + Then they tried the Great Slave, and he was found guilty. The queen sent + him word to beg for pardon. So he stood out and spoke to the queen. She + sat up straight, with pride in her eyes, for was it not a great prince, as + she thought, asking? But a cloud fell on her face, for he begged the + girl’s life. Since there must be death, let him die, and die by fire in + her place! It was then two women cried out: the poor girl for joy—not + at the thought that her life would be saved, but because she thought the + man loved her now, or he would not offer to die for her; and the queen for + hate, because she thought the same. You can guess the rest: they were both + to die, though the king was sorry for the man. + </p> + <p> + “The king’s speaker stood out and asked them if they had anything to say. + The girl stepped forward, her face without any fear, but a kind of noble + pride in it, and said: ‘I am ready, O king.’ + </p> + <p> + “The Great Slave bowed his head, and was thinking much. They asked him + again, and he waved his hand at them. The king spoke up in anger, and then + he smiled and said: ‘O king, I am not ready; if I die, I die.’ Then he + fell to thinking again. But once more the king spoke: ‘Thou shalt surely + die, but not by fire, nor now; nor till we have come to our great camp in + our own country. There thou shalt die. But the woman shall die at the + going down of the sun. She shall die by fire, and thou shalt light the + faggots for the burning.’ + </p> + <p> + “The Great Slave said he would not do it, not though he should die a + hundred deaths. Then the king said that it was the woman’s right to choose + who should start the fire, and he had given his word, which should not be + broken. + </p> + <p> + “When the Great Slave heard this he was wild for a little, and then he + guessed altogether what was in the girl’s mind. Was not this the true + thing in her, the very truest? Mais oui! That was what she wished—to + die by his hand rather than by any other; and something troubled his + breast, and a cloud came in his eyes, so that for a moment he could not + see. He looked at the girl, so serious, eye to eye. Perhaps she + understood. So, after a time, he got calm as the farthest light in the + sky, his face shining among them all with a look none could read. He sat + down, and wrote upon pieces of bark with a spear-point—those bits of + bark I have seen also at Fort O’Glory. He pierced them through with dried + strings of the slippery-elm tree, and with the king’s consent gave them to + the Company’s man, who had become one of the people, telling him, if ever + he was free, or could send them to the Company, he must do so. The man + promised, and shame came upon him that he had let the other suffer alone; + and he said he was willing to fight and die if the Great Slave gave the + word. But he would not; and he urged that it was right for the man to save + his life. For himself, no. It could never be; and if he must die, he must + die. + </p> + <p> + “You see, a great man must always live alone and die alone, when there are + only such people about him. So, now that the letters were written, he sat + upon the ground and thought, looking often towards the girl, who was + placed apart, with guards near. The king sat thinking also. He could not + guess why the Great Slave should give the letters now, since he was not + yet to die, nor could the Company’s man show a reason when the king asked + him. So the king waited, and told the guards to see that the Great Slave + did not kill himself. + </p> + <p> + “But the queen wanted the death of the girl, and was glad beyond telling + that the Slave must light the faggots. She was glad when she saw the young + braves bring a long sapling from the forest, and, digging a hole, put it + stoutly in the ground, and fetch wood, and heap it about. + </p> + <p> + “The Great Slave noted that the bark of the sapling had not been stripped, + and more than once he measured, with his eye, the space between the stake + and the shores of the Lake: he did this most private, so that no one saw + but the girl. + </p> + <p> + “At last the time was come. The Lake was all rose and gold out there in + the west, and the water so still so still. The cool, moist scent of the + leaves and grass came out from the woods and up from the plain, and the + world was so full of content that a man’s heart could cry out, even as + now, while we look—eh, is it not good? See the deer drinking on the + other shore there!” Suddenly Pierre became silent, as if he had forgotten + the story altogether. Tybalt was impatient, but he did not speak. He took + a twig, and in the sand he wrote “Charles Rex.” Pierre glanced down and + saw it. + </p> + <p> + “There was beating of the little drums,” he continued, “and the crying of + the king’s speaker; and soon all was ready, and the people gathered at a + distance, and the king and the queen, and the chief men nearer; and the + girl was brought forth. + </p> + <p> + “As they led her past the Great Slave, she looked into his eyes, and + afterwards her heart was glad, for she knew that at the last he would be + near her, and that his hand should light the fires. Two men tied her to + the stake. Then the king’s man cried out again, telling of her crime, and + calling for her death. The Great Slave was brought near. No one knew that + the palms of his hands had been rubbed in the sand for a purpose. When he + was brought beside the stake, a torch was given him by his guards. He + looked at the girl, and she smiled at him, and said: ‘Good-bye. Forgive. I + die not afraid, and happy.’ + </p> + <p> + “He did not answer, but stooped and lit the sticks here and there. All at + once he snatched a burning stick, and it and the torch he thrust, like + lightning, in the faces of his guards, blinding them. Then he sprang to + the stake, and, with a huge pull, tore it from the ground, girl and all, + and rushed to the shore of the Lake, with her tied so in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “He had been so swift that, at first, no one stirred. He reached the + shore, rushed into the water, dragging a boat out with one hand as he did + so, and, putting the girl in, seized a paddle and was away with a start. A + few strokes, and then he stopped, picked up a hatchet that was in the boat + with many spears, and freed the girl. Then he paddled on, trusting, with a + small hope, that through his great strength he could keep ahead till + darkness came, and then, in the gloom, they might escape. The girl also + seized an oar, and the canoe—the king’s own canoe—came on like + a swallow. + </p> + <p> + “But the tribe was after them in fifty canoes, some coming straight along, + some spreading out to close in later. It was no equal game, for these + people were so quick and strong with the oars, and they were a hundred or + more to two. There could be but one end. It was what the Great Slave had + looked for: to fight till the last breath. He should fight for the woman + who had risked all for him—just a common woman of the north, but it + seemed good to lose his life for her; and she would be happy to die with + him. + </p> + <p> + “So they stood side by side when the spears and arrows fell round them, + and they gave death and wounds for wounds in their own bodies. When, at + last, the Indians climbed into the canoe, the Great Slave was dead of many + wounds, and the woman, all gashed, lay with her lips to his wet, red + cheek. She smiled as they dragged her away; and her soul hurried after his + to the Camp of the Great Fires.” + </p> + <p> + It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last he said: “If I could but tell + it as you have told it to me, Pierre!” Pierre answered: “Tell it with your + tongue, and this shall be nothing to it, for what am I? What English have + I, a gipsy of the snows? But do not write it, mais non! Writing wanders + from the matter. The eyes, and the tongue, and the time, that is the + thing. But in a book—it will sound all cold and thin. It is for the + north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk before a man rolls into his + blanket, and is at peace. No, no writing, monsieur. Speak it everywhere + with your tongue.” + </p> + <p> + “And so I would, were my tongue as yours. Pierre, tell me more about the + letters at Fort O’Glory. You know his name—what was it?” + </p> + <p> + “You said five hundred dollars for one of those letters. Is it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Tybalt had a new hope. + </p> + <p> + “T’sh! What do I want of five hundred dollars! But, here, answer me a + question: Was the lady—his wife, she that was left in England—a + good woman? Answer me out of your own sense, and from my story. If you say + right you shall have a letter—one that I have by me.” + </p> + <p> + Tybalt’s heart leapt into his throat. After a little he said huskily: “She + was a good woman—he believed her that, and so shall I.” + </p> + <p> + “You think he could not have been so great unless, eh? And that ‘Charles + Rex,’ what of him?” + </p> + <p> + “What good can it do to call him bad now?” Without a word, Pierre drew + from a leather wallet a letter, and, by the light of the fast-setting sun, + Tybalt read it, then read it again, and yet again. + </p> + <p> + “Poor soul! poor lady!” he said. “Was ever such another letter written to + any man? And it came too late; this, with the king’s recall, came too + late!” + </p> + <p> + “So—so. He died out there where that wild duck flies—a Great + Slave. Years after, the Company’s man brought word of all.” + </p> + <p> + Tybalt was looking at the name on the outside of the letter. + </p> + <p> + “How do they call that name?” asked Pierre. “It is like none I’ve seen—no.” + </p> + <p> + Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did not answer. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RED PATROL + </h2> + <p> + St. Augustine’s, Canterbury, had given him its licentiate’s hood, the + Bishop of Rupert’s Land had ordained him, and the North had swallowed him + up. He had gone forth with surplice, stole, hood, a sermon-case, the + prayer-book, and that other Book of all. Indian camps, trappers’ huts, and + Company’s posts had given him hospitality, and had heard him with patience + and consideration. At first he wore the surplice, stole, and hood, took + the eastward position, and intoned the service, and no man said him nay, + but watched him curiously and was sorrowful—he was so youthful, + clear of eye, and bent on doing heroical things. + </p> + <p> + But little by little there came a change. The hood was left behind at Fort + O’Glory, where it provoked the derision of the Methodist missionary who + followed him; the sermon-case stayed at Fort O’Battle; and at last the + surplice itself was put by at the Company’s post at Yellow Quill. He was + too excited and in earnest at first to see the effect of his + ministrations, but there came slowly over him the knowledge that he was + talking into space. He felt something returning on him out of the air into + which he talked, and buffeting him. It was the Spirit of the North, in + which lives the terror, the large heart of things, the soul of the past. + He awoke to his inadequacy, to the fact that all these men to whom he + talked, listened, and only listened, and treated him with a gentleness + which was almost pity—as one might a woman. He had talked doctrine, + the Church, the sacraments, and at Fort O’Battle he faced definitely the + futility of his work. What was to blame—the Church—religion—himself? + </p> + <p> + It was at Fort O’Battle that he met Pierre, and heard a voice say over his + shoulder, as he walked out into the icy dusk: “The voice of one crying in + the wilderness... and he had sackcloth about his loins, and his food was + locusts and wild honey.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to see Pierre, who in the large room of the Post had sat and + watched him as he prayed and preached. He had remarked the keen, curious + eye, the musing look, the habitual disdain at the lips. It had all touched + him, confused him; and now he had a kind of anger. + </p> + <p> + “You know it so well, why don’t you preach yourself?” he said feverishly. + </p> + <p> + “I have been preaching all my life,” Pierre answered drily. + </p> + <p> + “The devil’s games: cards and law-breaking; and you sneer at men who try + to bring lost sheep into the fold.” + </p> + <p> + “The fold of the Church—yes, I understand all that,” Pierre + answered. “I have heard you and the priests of my father’s Church talk. + Which is right? But as for me, I am a missionary. Cards, law-breaking—these + are what I have done; but these are not what I have preached.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you preached?” asked the other, walking on into the + fast-gathering night, beyond the Post and the Indian lodges, into the + wastes where frost and silence lived. + </p> + <p> + Pierre waved his hand towards space. “This,” he said suggestively. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this?” asked the other fretfully. + </p> + <p> + “The thing you feel round you here.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel the cold,” was the petulant reply. + </p> + <p> + “I feel the immense, the far off,” said Pierre slowly. + </p> + <p> + The other did not understand as yet. “You’ve learned big words,” he said + disdainfully. + </p> + <p> + “No; big things,” rejoined Pierre sharply—“a few.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me hear you preach them,” half snarled Sherburne. + </p> + <p> + “You will not like to hear them—no.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not likely to think about them one way or another,” was the + contemptuous reply. + </p> + <p> + Pierre’s eyes half closed. The young, impetuous half-baked college man. To + set his little knowledge against his own studious vagabondage! At that + instant he determined to play a game and win; to turn this man into a + vagabond also; to see John the Baptist become a Bedouin. He saw the doubt, + the uncertainty, the shattered vanity in the youth’s mind, the + missionary’s half retreat from his cause. A crisis was at hand. The youth + was fretful with his great theme, instead of being severe upon himself. + For days and days Pierre’s presence had acted on Sherburne silently but + forcibly. He had listened to the vagabond’s philosophy, and knew that it + was of a deeper—so much deeper—knowledge of life than he + himself possessed, and he knew also that it was terribly true; he was not + wise enough to see that it was only true in part. The influence had been + insidious, delicate, cunning, and he himself was only “a voice crying in + the wilderness,” without the simple creed of that voice. He knew that the + Methodist missionary was believed in more, if less liked, than himself. + Pierre would work now with all the latent devilry of his nature to unseat + the man from his saddle. + </p> + <p> + “You have missed the great thing, alors, though you have been up here two + years,” he said. “You do not feel, you do not know. What good have you + done? Who has got on his knees and changed his life because of you? Who + has told his beads or longed for the Mass because of you? Tell me, who has + ever said, ‘You have showed me how to live’? Even the women, though they + cry sometimes when you sing-song the prayers, go on just the same when the + little ‘bless-you’ is over. Why? Most of them know a better thing than you + tell them. Here is the truth: you are little—eh, so very little. You + never lied—direct; you never stole the waters that are sweet; you + never knew the big dreams that come with wine in the dead of night; you + never swore at your own soul and heard it laugh back at you; you never put + your face in the breast of a woman—do not look so wild at me!—you + never had a child; you never saw the world and yourself through the doors + of real life. You never have said, ‘I am tired; I am sick of all; I have + seen all.’ You have never felt what came after—understanding. Chut, + your talk is for children—and missionaries. You are a prophet + without a call, you are a leader without a man to lead, you are less than + a child up here. For here the children feel a peace in their blood when + the stars come out, and a joy in their brains when the dawn comes up and + reaches a yellow hand to the Pole, and the west wind shouts at them. Holy + Mother! we in the far north, we feel things, for all the great souls of + the dead are up there at the Pole in the pleasant land, and we have seen + the Scarlet Hunter and the Kimash Hills. You have seen nothing. You have + only heard, and because, like a child, you have never sinned, you come and + preach to us!” + </p> + <p> + The night was folding down fast, all the stars were shooting out into + their places, and in the north the white lights of the aurora were flying + to and fro. Pierre had spoken with a slow force and precision, yet, as he + went on, his eyes almost became fixed on those shifting flames, and a deep + look came into them, as he was moved by his own eloquence. Never in his + life had he made so long a speech at once. He paused, and then said + suddenly: “Come, let us run.” + </p> + <p> + He broke into a long, sliding trot, and Sherburne did the same. With their + arms gathered to their sides they ran for quite two miles without a word, + until the heavy breathing of the clergyman brought Pierre up suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “You do not run well,” he said; “you do not run with the whole body. You + know so little. Did you ever think how much such men as Jacques Parfaite + know? The earth they read like a book, the sky like an animal’s ways, and + a man’s face like—like the writing on the wall.” + </p> + <p> + “Like the writing on the wall,” said Sherburne, musing; for, under the + other’s influence, his petulance was gone. He knew that he was not a part + of this life, that he was ignorant of it; of, indeed, all that was vital + in it and in men and women. + </p> + <p> + “I think you began this too soon. You should have waited; then you might + have done good. But here we are wiser than you. You have no message—no + real message—to give us; down in your heart you are not even sure of + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Sherburne sighed. “I’m of no use,” he said. “I’ll get out. I’m no good at + all.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre’s eyes glistened. He remembered how, the day before, this youth had + said hot words about his card-playing; had called him—in effect—a + thief; had treated him as an inferior, as became one who was of St. + Augustine’s, Canterbury. + </p> + <p> + “It is the great thing to be free,” Pierre said, “that no man shall look + for this or that of you. Just to do as far as you feel, as far as you are + sure—that is the best. In this you are not sure—no. Hein, is + it not?” + </p> + <p> + Sherburne did not answer. Anger, distrust, wretchedness, the spirit of the + alien, loneliness, were alive in him. The magnetism of this deep + penetrating man, possessed of a devil, was on him, and in spite of every + reasonable instinct he turned to him for companionship. + </p> + <p> + “It’s been a failure,” he burst out, “and I’m sick of it—sick of it; + but I can’t give it up.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre said nothing. They had come to what seemed a vast semicircle of ice + and snow, a huge amphitheatre in the plains. It was wonderful: a great + round wall on which the northern lights played, into which the stars + peered. It was open towards the north, and in one side was a fissure + shaped like a Gothic arch. Pierre pointed to it, and they did not speak + till they had passed through it. Like great seats the steppes of snow + ranged round, and in the centre was a kind of plateau of ice, as it might + seem a stage or an altar. To the north there was a great opening, the lost + arc of the circle, through which the mystery of the Pole swept in and out, + or brooded there where no man may question it. Pierre stood and looked. + Time and again he had been here, and had asked the same question: Who had + ever sat on those frozen benches and looked down at the drama on that + stage below? Who played the parts? Was it a farce or a sacrifice? To him + had been given the sorrow of imagination, and he wondered and wondered. Or + did they come still—those strange people, whoever they were—and + watch ghostly gladiators at their fatal sport? If they came, when was it? + Perhaps they were there now unseen. In spite of himself he shuddered. Who + was the keeper of the house? + </p> + <p> + Through his mind there ran—pregnant to him for the first tine—a + chanson of the Scarlet Hunter, the Red Patrol, who guarded the sleepers in + the Kimash Hills against the time they should awake and possess the land + once more: the friend of the lost, the lover of the vagabond, and of all + who had no home: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Strangers come to the outer walls— + (Why do the sleepers stir?) + Strangers enter the Judgment House— + (Why do the sleepers sigh?) + Slow they rise in their judgment seats, + Sieve and measure the naked souls, + Then with a blessing return to sleep— + (Quiet the Judgment House.) + Lone and sick are the vagrant souls— + (When shall the world come home?)” + </pre> + <p> + He reflected upon the words, and a feeling of awe came over him, for he + had been in the White Valley and had seen the Scarlet Hunter. But there + came at once also a sinister desire to play a game for this man’s + life-work here. He knew that the other was ready for any wild move; there + was upon him the sense of failure and disgust; he was acted on by the + magic of the night, the terrible delight of the scene, and that might be + turned to advantage. + </p> + <p> + He said: “Am I not right? There is something in the world greater than the + creeds and the book of the Mass. To be free and to enjoy, that is the + thing. Never before have you felt what you feel here now. And I will show + you more. I will teach you how to know, I will lead you through all the + north and make you to understand the big things of life. Then, when you + have known, you can return if you will. But now—see: I will tell you + what I will do. Here on this great platform we will play a game of cards. + There is a man whose life I can ruin. If you win I promise to leave him + safe; and to go out of the far north for ever, to go back to Quebec”—he + had a kind of gaming fever in his veins. “If I win, you give up the + Church, leaving behind the prayerbook, the Bible and all, coming with me + to do what I shall tell you, for the passing of twelve moons. It is a + great stake—will you play it? Come”—he leaned forward, looking + into the other’s face—“will you play it? They drew lots—those + people in the Bible. We will draw lots, and see, eh?—and see?” + </p> + <p> + “I accept the stake,” said Sherburne, with a little gasp. + </p> + <p> + Without a word they went upon that platform, shaped like an altar, and + Pierre at once drew out a pack of cards, shuffling them with his mittened + hands. Then he knelt down and said, as he laid out the cards one by one + till there were thirty: “Whoever gets the ace of hearts first, wins—hein?” + </p> + <p> + Sherburne nodded and knelt also. The cards lay back upwards in three rows. + For a moment neither stirred. The white, metallic stars saw it, the small + crescent moon beheld it, and the deep wonder of night made it strange and + dreadful. Once or twice Sherburne looked round as though he felt others + present, and once Pierre looked out to the wide portals, as though he saw + some one entering. But there was nothing to the eye—nothing. + Presently Pierre said: “Begin.” + </p> + <p> + The other drew a card, then Pierre drew one, then the other, then Pierre + again; and so on. How slow the game was! Neither hurried, but both, + kneeling, looked and looked at the card long before drawing and turning it + over. The stake was weighty, and Pierre loved the game more than he cared + about the stake. Sherburne cared nothing about the game, but all his soul + seemed set upon the hazard. There was not a sound out of the night, + nothing stirring but the Spirit of the North. Twenty, twenty-five cards + were drawn, and then Pierre paused. + </p> + <p> + “In a minute all will be settled,” he said. “Will you go on, or will you + pause?” + </p> + <p> + But Sherburne had got the madness of chance in his veins now, and he said: + “Quick, quick, go on!” Pierre drew, but the great card held back. + Sherburne drew, then Pierre again. There were three left. Sherburne’s face + was as white as the snow around him. His mouth was open, and a little + white cloud of frosted breath came out. His hand hungered for the card, + drew back, then seized it. A moan broke from him. Then Pierre, with a + little weird laugh, reached out and turned over the ace of hearts! + </p> + <p> + They both stood up. Pierre put the cards in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “You have lost,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Sherburne threw back his head with a reckless laugh. The laugh seemed to + echo and echo through the amphitheatre, and then from the frozen seats, + the hillocks of ice and snow, there was a long, low sound, as of sorrow, + and a voice came after: + </p> + <p> + “Sleep—sleep! Blessed be the just and the keepers of vows.” + </p> + <p> + Sherburne stood shaking, as though he had seen a host of spirits. His eyes + on the great seats of judgment, he said to Pierre: + </p> + <p> + “See, see, how they sit there, grey and cold and awful!” + </p> + <p> + But Pierre shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing,” he said, “nothing;” yet he knew that Sherburne was + looking upon the men of judgment of the Kimash Hills, the sleepers. He + looked round, half fearfully, for if here were those great children of the + ages, where was the keeper of the house, the Red Patrol? + </p> + <p> + Even as he thought, a figure in scarlet with a noble face and a high pride + of bearing stood before them, not far away. Sherburne clutched his arm. + </p> + <p> + Then the Red Patrol, the Scarlet Hunter spoke: “Why have you sinned your + sins and broken your vows within our house of judgment? Know ye not that + in the new springtime of the world ye shall be outcast, because ye have + called the sleepers to judgment before their time? But I am the hunter of + the lost. Go you,” he said to Sherburne, pointing, “where a sick man lies + in a hut in the Shikam Valley. In his soul find thine own again.” Then to + Pierre: “For thee, thou shalt know the desert and the storm and the lonely + hills; thou shalt neither seek nor find. Go, and return no more.” + </p> + <p> + The two men, Sherburne falteringly, stepped down and moved to the open + plain. They turned at the great entrance and looked back. Where they had + stood there rested on his long bow the Red Patrol. He raised it, and a + flaming arrow flew through the sky towards the south. They followed its + course, and when they looked back a little afterwards, the great + judgment-house was empty, and the whole north was silent as the sleepers. + </p> + <p> + At dawn they came to the hut in the Shikam Valley, and there they found a + trapper dying. He had sinned greatly, and he could not die without someone + to show him how, to tell him what to say to the angel of the cross-roads. + </p> + <p> + Sherburne, kneeling by him, felt his own new soul moved by a holy fire, + and, first praying for himself, he said to the sick man: “For if we + confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to + cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” + </p> + <p> + Praying for both, his heart grew strong, and he heard the sick man say, + ere he journeyed forth to the crossroads: + </p> + <p> + “You have shown me the way. I have peace.” + </p> + <p> + “Speak for me in the Presence,” said Sherburne softly. + </p> + <p> + The dying man could not answer, but that moment, as he journeyed forth on + the Far Trail, he held Sherburne’s hand. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN + </h2> + <h3> + “Why don’t she come back, father?” + </h3> + <p> + The man shook his head, his hand fumbled with the wolf-skin robe covering + the child, and he made no reply. “She’d come if she knew I was hurted, + wouldn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + The father nodded, and then turned restlessly toward the door, as though + expecting someone. The look was troubled, and the pipe he held was not + alight, though he made a pretence of smoking. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose the wild cat had got me, she’d be sorry when she comes, wouldn’t + she?” + </p> + <p> + There was no reply yet, save by gesture, the language of primitive man; + but the big body shivered a little, and the uncouth hand felt for a place + in the bed where the lad’s knee made a lump under the robe. He felt the + little heap tenderly, but the child winced. + </p> + <p> + “S-sh, but that hurts! This wolf-skin’s most too much on me, isn’t it, + father?” + </p> + <p> + The man softly, yet awkwardly too, lifted the robe, folded it back, and + slowly uncovered the knee. The leg was worn away almost to skin and bone, + but the knee itself was swollen with inflammation. He bathed it with some + water, mixed with vinegar and herbs, then drew down the deer-skin shirt at + the child’s shoulder, and did the same with it. Both shoulder and knee + bore the marks of teeth—where a huge wild cat had made havoc—and + the body had long red scratches. + </p> + <p> + Presently the man shook his head sorrowfully, and covered up the small + disfigured frame again, but this time with a tanned skin of the caribou. + The flames of the huge wood fire dashed the walls and floor with a velvety + red and black, and the large iron kettle, bought of the Company at Fort + Sacrament, puffed out geysers of steam. + </p> + <p> + The place was a low but with parchment windows and rough mud-mortar lumped + between the logs. Skins hung along two sides, with bullet-holes and + knife-holes showing: of the great grey wolf, the red puma, the bronze + hill-lion, the beaver, the bear, and the sable; and in one corner was a + huge pile of them. Bare of the usual comforts as the room was, it had a + sort of refinement also, joined to an inexpressible loneliness; you could + scarce have told how or why. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” said the boy, his face pinched with pain for a moment, “it hurts + so all over, every once in a while.” + </p> + <p> + His fingers caressed the leg just below the knee. “Father,” he suddenly + added, “what does it mean when you hear a bird sing in the middle of the + night?” The woodsman looked down anxiously into the boy’s face. “It hasn’t + no meaning, Dominique. There ain’t such a thing on the Labrador Heights as + a bird singin’ in the night. That’s only in warm countries where there’s + nightingales. So—bien sur!” + </p> + <p> + The boy had a wise, dreamy, speculative look. “Well, I guess it was a + nightingale—it didn’t sing like any I ever heard.” + </p> + <p> + The look of nervousness deepened in the woodsman’s face. “What did it sing + like, Dominique?” + </p> + <p> + “So it made you shiver. You wanted it to go on, and yet you didn’t want + it. It was pretty, but you felt as if something was going to snap inside + of you.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you hear it, my son?” + </p> + <p> + “Twice last night—and—and I guess it was Sunday the other + time. I don’t know, for there hasn’t been no Sunday up here since mother + went away—has there?” + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe not.” + </p> + <p> + The veins were beating like live cords in the man’s throat and at his + temples. + </p> + <p> + “‘Twas just the same as Father Corraine bein’ here, when mother had + Sunday, wasn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + The man made no reply, but a gloom drew down his forehead, and his lips + doubled in as if he endured physical pain. He got to his feet and paced + the floor. For weeks he had listened to the same kind of talk from this + wounded, and, as he thought, dying son, and he was getting less and less + able to bear it. The boy at nine years of age was, in manner of speech, + the merest child, but his thoughts were sometimes large and wise. The only + white child within a compass of three hundred miles or so; the lonely life + of the hills and plains, so austere in winter, so melted to a sober joy in + summer; listening to the talk of his elders at camp-fires and on the + hunting-trail, when, even as an infant almost, he was swung in a blanket + from a tree or was packed in the torch-crane of a canoe; and, more than + all, the care of a good, loving—if passionate—little mother: + all these had made him far wiser than his years. He had been hours upon + hours each day alone with the birds, and squirrels, and wild animals, and + something of the keen scent and instinct of the animal world had entered + into his body and brain, so that he felt what he could not understand. + </p> + <p> + He saw that he had worried his father, and it troubled him. He thought of + something. “Daddy,” he said, “let me have it.” + </p> + <p> + A smile struggled for life in the hunter’s face, as he turned to the wall + and took down the skin of a silver fox. He held it on his palm for a + moment, looking at it in an interested, satisfied way, then he brought it + over and put it into the child’s hands; and the smile now shaped itself, + as he saw an eager pale face buried in the soft fur. + </p> + <p> + “Good! good!” he said involuntarily. + </p> + <p> + “Bon! bon!” said the boy’s voice from the fur, in the language of his + mother, who added a strain of Indian blood to her French ancestry. + </p> + <p> + The two sat there, the man half-kneeling on the low bed, and stroking the + fur very gently. It could scarcely be thought that such pride should be + spent on a little pelt by a mere backwoodsman and his nine-year-old son. + One has seen a woman fingering a splendid necklace, her eyes fascinated by + the bunch of warm, deep jewels—a light not of mere vanity, or + hunger, or avarice in her face—only the love of the beautiful thing. + But this was an animal’s skin. Did they feel the animal underneath it yet, + giving it beauty, life, glory? + </p> + <p> + The silver-fox skin is the prize of the north, and this one was of the + boy’s own harvesting. While his father was away he saw the fox creeping by + the hut. The joy of the hunter seized him, and guided his eye over the + sights of his father’s rifle, as he rested the barrel on the window-sill, + and the animal was his! Now his finger ran into the hole made by the + bullet, and he gave a little laugh of modest triumph. Minutes passed as + they studied, felt, and admired the skin, the hunter proud of his son, the + son alive with a primitive passion, which inflicts suffering to get the + beautiful thing. Perhaps the tenderness as well as the wild passion of the + animal gets into the hunter’s blood, and tips his fingers at times with an + exquisite kindness—as one has noted in a lion fondling her young, or + in tigers as they sport upon the sands of the desert. This boy had seen + his father shoot a splendid moose, and as it lay dying, drop down and kiss + it in the neck for sheer love of its handsomeness. Death is no insult. It + is the law of the primitive world—war, and love in war. + </p> + <p> + They sat there for a long time, not speaking, each busy in his own way: + the boy full of imaginings, strange, half-heathen, half-angelic feelings; + the man roaming in that savage, romantic, superstitious atmosphere which + belongs to the north, and to the north alone. At last the boy lay back on + the pillow, his finger still in the bullet-hole of the pelt. His eyes + closed, and he seemed about to fall asleep, but presently looked up and + whispered: “I haven’t said my prayers, have I?” + </p> + <p> + The father shook his head in a sort of rude confusion. + </p> + <p> + “I can pray out loud if I want to, can’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, Dominique.” The man shrank a little. + </p> + <p> + “I forget a good many times, but I know one all right, for I said it when + the bird was singing. It isn’t one out of the book Father Corraine sent + mother by Pretty Pierre; it’s one she taught me out of her own head. + P’r’aps I’d better say it.” + </p> + <p> + “P’r’aps, if you want to.” The voice was husky. The boy began: + </p> + <p> + “O bon Jesu, who died to save us from our sins, and to lead us to Thy + country, where there is no cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where no one + is afraid, listen to Thy child.... When the great winds and rains come + down from the hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor the woods cover + us, nor the snow-slide bury us; and do not let the prairie-fires burn us. + Keep wild beasts from killing us in our sleep, and give us good hearts + that we may not kill them in anger.” + </p> + <p> + His finger twisted involuntarily into the bullet-hole in the pelt, and he + paused a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Keep us from getting lost, O gracious Saviour.” Again there was a pause, + his eyes opened wide, and he said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you think mother’s lost, father?” + </p> + <p> + A heavy broken breath came from the father, and he replied haltingly: + “Mebbe, mebbe so.” + </p> + <p> + Dominique’s eyes closed again. “I’ll make up some,” he said slowly. “And + if mother’s lost, bring her back again to us, for everything’s going + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + Again he paused, then went on with the prayer as it had been taught him. + </p> + <p> + “Teach us to hear Thee whenever Thou callest, and to see Thee when Thou + visitest us, and let the blessed Mary and all the saints speak often to + Thee for us. O Christ, hear us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ have + mercy upon us. Amen.” + </p> + <p> + Making the sign of the cross, he lay back, and said “I’ll go to sleep now, + I guess.” + </p> + <p> + The man sat for a long time looking at the pale, shining face, at the blue + veins showing painfully dark on the temples and forehead, at the firm + little white hand, which was as brown as a butternut a few weeks before. + The longer he sat, the deeper did his misery sink into his soul. His wife + had gone, he knew not where, his child was wasting to death, and he had + for his sorrows no inner consolation. He had ever had that touch of + mystical imagination inseparable from the far north, yet he had none of + that religious belief which swallowed up natural awe and turned it to the + refining of life, and to the advantage of a man’s soul. Now it was forced + in upon him that his child was wiser than himself, wiser and safer. His + life had been spent in the wastes, with rough deeds and rugged habits, and + a youth of hardship, danger, and almost savage endurance, had given him a + half-barbarian temperament, which could strike an angry blow at one moment + and fondle to death at the next. + </p> + <p> + When he married sweet Lucette Barbond his religion reached little farther + than a belief in the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills and those voices + that could be heard calling in the night, till their time of sleep be + past, and they should rise and reconquer the north. + </p> + <p> + Not even Father Corraine, whose ways were like those of his Master, could + ever bring him to a more definite faith. His wife had at first striven + with him, mourning yet loving. Sometimes the savage in him had broken out + over the little creature, merely because barbaric tyranny was in him—torture + followed by the passionate kiss. But how was she philosopher enough to + understand the cause? + </p> + <p> + When she fled from their hut one bitter day, as he roared some wild words + at her, it was because her nerves had all been shaken from threatened + death by wild beasts (of which he did not know), and his violence drove + her mad. She had run out of the house, and on, and on, and on—and + she had never come back. That was weeks ago, and there had been no word + nor sign of her since. The man was now busy with it all, in a slow, + cumbrous way. A nature more to be touched by things seen than by things + told, his mind was being awakened in a massive kind of fashion. He was + viewing this crisis of his life as one sees a human face in the wide + searching light of a great fire. He was restless, but he held himself + still by a strong effort, not wishing to disturb the sleeper. His eyes + seemed to retreat farther and farther back under his shaggy brows. + </p> + <p> + The great logs in the chimney burned brilliantly, and a brass crucifix + over the child’s head now and again reflected soft little flashes of + light. This caught the hunter’s eye. Presently there grew up in him a + vague kind of hope that, somehow, this symbol would bring him luck—that + was the way he put it to himself. He had felt this—and something + more—when Dominique prayed. Somehow, Dominique’s prayer was the only + one he had ever heard that had gone home to him, had opened up the big + sluices of his nature, and let the light of God flood in. No, there was + another: the one Lucette made on the day that they were married, when a + wonderful timid reverence played through his hungry love for her. + </p> + <p> + Hours passed. All at once, without any other motion or gesture, the boy’s + eyes opened wide with a strange, intense look. + </p> + <p> + “Father,” he said slowly, and in a kind of dream, “when you hear a sweet + horn blow at night, is it the Scarlet Hunter calling?” + </p> + <p> + “P’r’aps. Why, Dominique?” He made up his mind to humour the boy, though + it gave him strange aching forebodings. He had seen grown men and women + with these fancies—and they had died. + </p> + <p> + “I heard one blowing just now, and the sounds seemed to wave over my head. + Perhaps he’s calling someone that’s lost.” + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe.” + </p> + <p> + “And I heard a voice singing—it wasn’t a bird tonight.” + </p> + <p> + “There was no voice, Dominique.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes.” There was something fine in the grave, courteous certainty of + the lad. “I waked and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut my eyes + again, and I heard the voice. I remember the tune and the words.” + </p> + <p> + “What were the words?” In spite of himself the hunter felt awed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve heard mother sing them, or something most like them: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why does the fire no longer burn? + (I am so lonely.) + Why does the tent-door swing outward? + (I have no home.) + Oh, let me breathe hard in your face! + (I am so lonely.) + Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me? + (I have no home.)” + </pre> + <p> + The boy paused. + </p> + <p> + “Was that all, Dominique?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not all.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Let us make friends with the stars; + (I am so lonely.) + Give me your hand, I will hold it. + (I have no home.) + Let us go hunting together. + (I am so lonely.) + We will sleep at God’s camp to-night. + (I have no home.)” + </pre> + <p> + Dominique did not sing, but recited the words with a sort of chanting + inflection. + </p> + <p> + “What does it mean when you hear a voice like that, father?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Who told—your mother—the song?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know. I suppose she just made them up—she and God.... + There! There it is again? Don’t you hear it—don’t you hear it, + daddy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Dominique, it’s only the kettle singing.” + </p> + <p> + “A kettle isn’t a voice. Daddy—” He paused a little, then went on, + hesitatingly—“I saw a white swan fly through the door over your + shoulder, when you came in to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Dominique; it was a flurry of snow blowing over my shoulder.” + </p> + <p> + “But it looked at me with two shining eyes.” + </p> + <p> + “That was two stars shining through the door, my son.” + </p> + <p> + “How could there be snow flying and stars shining too, father?” + </p> + <p> + “It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but the stars were shining above, + Dominique.” + </p> + <p> + The man’s voice was anxious and unconvincing, his eyes had a hungry, + hunted look. The legend of the White Swan had to do with the passing of a + human soul. The swan had come in—would it go out alone? He touched + the boy’s hand—it was hot with fever; he felt the pulse—it ran + high; he watched the face—it had a glowing light. Something stirred + within him, and passed like a wave to the farthest courses of his being. + Through his misery he had touched the garment of the Master of Souls. As + though a voice said to him there, “Someone hath touched me,” he got to his + feet, and, with a sudden blind humility, lit two candles, placed them on a + shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure of the Virgin, as he had seen + his wife do. Then he picked a small handful of fresh spruce twigs from a + branch over the chimney, and laid them beside the candles. After a short + pause he came slowly to the head of the boy’s bed. Very solemnly he + touched the foot of the Christ on the cross with the tips of his fingers, + and brought them to his lips with an indescribable reverence. After a + moment, standing with eyes fixed on the face of the crucified figure, he + said, in a shaking voice: + </p> + <p> + “Pardon, bon Jesu! Sauvez mon enfant! Ne me laissez pas seul!” + </p> + <p> + The boy looked up with eyes again grown unnaturally heavy, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Amen!... Bon Jesu!... Encore! Encore, mon pere!” + </p> + <p> + The boy slept. The father stood still by the bed for a time, but at last + slowly turned and went toward the fire. + </p> + <p> + Outside, two figures were approaching the hut—a man and a woman; yet + at first glance the man might easily have been taken for a woman, because + of the long black robe which he wore, and because his hair fell loose on + his shoulders and his face was clean-shaven. + </p> + <p> + “Have patience, my daughter,” said the man. “Do not enter till I call you. + But stand close to the door, if you will, and hear all.” + </p> + <p> + So saying he raised his hand as in a kind of benediction, passed to the + door, and after tapping very softly, opened it, entered, and closed it + behind him-not so quickly, however, but that the woman caught a glimpse of + the father and the boy. In her eyes there was the divine look of + motherhood. + </p> + <p> + “Peace be to this house!” said the man gently as he stepped forward from + the door. + </p> + <p> + The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on him, as if he had seen a + spirit. + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’ le cure!” he said in French, with an accent much poorer than that + of the priest, or even of his own son. He had learned French from his + wife; he himself was English. + </p> + <p> + The priest’s quick eye had taken in the lighted candles at the little + shrine, even as he saw the painfully changed aspect of the man. + </p> + <p> + “The wife and child, Bagot?” he asked, looking round. “Ah, the boy!” he + added, and going toward the bed, continued, presently, in a low voice: + “Dominique is ill?” + </p> + <p> + Bagot nodded, and then answered: “A wild-cat and then fever, Father + Corraine.” + </p> + <p> + The priest felt the boy’s pulse softly, then with a close personal look he + spoke hardly above his breath, yet distinctly too: + </p> + <p> + “Your wife, Bagot?” + </p> + <p> + “She is not here, m’sieu’.” The voice was low and gloomy. + </p> + <p> + “Where is she, Bagot?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not know, m’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you see her last?” + </p> + <p> + “Four weeks ago, m’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + “That was September, this is October—winter. On the ranches they let + their cattle loose upon the plains in winter, knowing not where they go, + yet looking for them to return in the spring. But a woman—a woman + and a wife—is different.... Bagot, you have been a rough, hard man, + and you have been a stranger to your God, but I thought you loved your + wife and child!” + </p> + <p> + The hunter’s hands clenched, and a wicked light flashed up into his eyes; + but the calm, benignant gaze of the other cooled the tempest in his veins. + The priest sat down on the couch where the child lay, and took the fevered + hand in his very softly. + </p> + <p> + “Stay where you are, Bagot,” he said; “just there where you are, and tell + me what your trouble is, and why your wife is not here.... Say all + honestly—by the name of the Christ!” he added, lifting up a large + iron crucifix that hung on his breast. + </p> + <p> + Bagot sat down on a bench near the fireplace, the light playing on his + bronzed, powerful face, his eyes shining beneath his heavy brows like two + coals. After a moment he began: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how it started. I’d lost a lot of pelts—stolen they + were, down on the Child o’ Sin River. Well, she was hasty and nervous, + like as not—she always was brisker and more sudden than I am. I—I + laid my powder-horn and whisky-flask-up there!” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin, where now his candles were + burning. The priest’s grave eyes did not change expression at all, but + looked out wisely, as though he understood everything before it was told. + </p> + <p> + Bagot continued: “I didn’t notice it, but she had put some flowers there. + She said something with an edge, her face all snapping angry, threw the + things down, and called me a heathen and a wicked heretic—and I + don’t say now but she’d a right to do it. But I let out then, for them + stolen pelts were rasping me on the raw. I said something pretty rough, + and made as if I was goin’ to break her in two—just fetched up my + hands, and went like this!—” With a singular simplicity he made a + wild gesture with his hands, and an animal-like snarl came from his + throat. Then he looked at the priest with the honest intensity of a boy. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is what you did—what was it you said which was ‘pretty + rough’?” + </p> + <p> + There was a slight hesitation, then came the reply: “I said there was + enough powder spilt on the floor to kill all the priests in heaven.” + </p> + <p> + A fire suddenly shot up into Father Corraine’s face, and his lips + tightened for an instant, but presently he was as before, and he said: + </p> + <p> + “How that will face you one day, Bagot! Go on. What else?” + </p> + <p> + Sweat began to break out on Bagot’s face, and he spoke as though he were + carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, low and brokenly. + </p> + <p> + “Then I said, ‘And if virgins has it so fine, why didn’t you stay one?’” + </p> + <p> + “Blasphemer!” said the priest in a stern, reproachful voice, his face + turning a little pale, and he brought the crucifix to his lips. “To the + mother of your child—shame! What more?” + </p> + <p> + She threw up her hands to her ears with a wild cry, ran out of the house, + down the hills, and away. I went to the door and watched her as long as I + could see her, and waited for her to come back—but she never did. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve hunted and hunted, but I can’t find her.” Then, with a sudden + thought, “Do you know anything of her, m’sieu’?” + </p> + <p> + The priest appeared not to hear the question. Turning for a moment toward + the boy who now was in a deep sleep, he looked at him intently. Presently + he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Ever since I married you and Lucette Barbond, you have stood in the way + of her duty, Bagot. How well I remember that first day when you knelt + before me! Was ever so sweet and good a girl—with her golden eyes + and the look of summer in her face, and her heart all pure! Nothing had + spoiled her—you cannot spoil such women—God is in their + hearts. But you, what have you cared? One day you would fondle her, and + the next you were a savage—and she, so gentle, so gentle all the + time. Then, for her religion and the faith of her child—she has + fought for it, prayed for it, suffered for it. You thought you had no + need, for you had so much happiness, which you did not deserve—that + was it. But she: with all a woman suffers, how can she bear life—and + man—without God? No, it is not possible. And you thought you and + your few superstitions were enough for her.—Ah, poor fool! She + should worship you! So selfish, so small, for a man who knows in his heart + how great God is.—You did not love her.” + </p> + <p> + “By the Heaven above, yes!” said Bagot, half starting to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, ‘by the Heaven above,’ no! nor the child. For true love is unselfish + and patient, and where it is the stronger, it cares for the weaker; but it + was your wife who was unselfish, patient, and cared for you. Every time + she said an ave she thought of you, and her every thanks to the good God + had you therein. They know you well in heaven, Bagot—through your + wife. Did you ever pray—ever since I married you to her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “An hour or so ago.” + </p> + <p> + Once again the priest’s eyes glanced towards the lighted candles. + </p> + <p> + Presently he said: “You asked me if I had heard anything of your wife. + Listen, and be patient while you listen.... Three weeks ago I was camping + on the Sundust Plains, over against the Young Sky River. In the morning, + as I was lighting a fire outside my tent, my young Cree Indian with me, I + saw coming over the crest of a land-wave, from the very lips of the + sunrise, as it were, a band of Indians. I could not quite make them out. I + hoisted my little flag on the tent, and they hurried on to me. I did not + know the tribe—they had come from near Hudson’s Bay. They spoke + Chinook, and I could understand them. Well, as they came near I saw that + they had a woman with them.” + </p> + <p> + Bagot leaned forward, his body strained, every muscle tense. “A woman?” he + said, as if breathing gave him sorrow—“my wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Quick! Quick! Go on—oh, go on, m’sieu’—good father.” + </p> + <p> + “She fell at my feet, begging me to save her.... I waved her off.” + </p> + <p> + The sweat dropped from Bagot’s forehead, a low growl broke from him, and + he made such a motion as a lion might make at its prey. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t—wouldn’t save her—you coward!” He ground the + words out. + </p> + <p> + The priest raised his palm against the other’s violence. “Hush!... She + drew away, saying that God and man had deserted her.... We had breakfast, + the chief and I. Afterwards, when the chief had eaten much and was in good + humour, I asked him where he had got the woman. He said that he had found + her on the plains she had lost her way. I told him then that I wanted to + buy her. He said to me, ‘What does a priest want of a woman?’ I said that + I wished to give her back to her husband. He said that he had found her, + and she was his, and that he would marry her when they reached the great + camp of the tribe. I was patient. It would not do to make him angry. I + wrote down on a piece of bark the things that I would give him for her: an + order on the Company at Fort o’ Sin for shot, blankets, and beads. He said + no.” + </p> + <p> + The priest paused. Bagot’s face was all swimming with sweat, his body was + rigid, but the veins of his neck knotted and twisted. + </p> + <p> + “For the love of God, go on!” he said hoarsely. “Yes, ‘for the love of + God.’ I have no money, I am poor, but the Company will always honour my + orders, for I pay sometimes, by the help of Christ. Bien, I added some + things to the list: a saddle, a rifle, and some flannel. But no, he would + not. Once more I put many things down. It was a big bill—it would + keep me poor for five years.—To save your wife, John Bagot, you who + drove her from your door, blaspheming, and railing at such as I.... I + offered the things, and told him that was all that I could give. After a + little he shook his head, and said that he must have the woman for his + wife. I did not know what to add. I said—‘She is white, and the + white people will never rest till they have killed you all, if you do this + thing. The Company will track you down.’ Then he said, ‘The whites must + catch me and fight me before they kill me.’... What was there to do?” + </p> + <p> + Bagot came near to the priest, bending over him savagely. + </p> + <p> + “You let her stay with them—you with hands like a man!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” was the calm, reproving answer. “I was one man, they were twenty.” + </p> + <p> + “Where was your God to help you, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Her God and mine was with me.” + </p> + <p> + Bagot’s eyes blazed. “Why didn’t you offer rum—rum? They’d have done + it for that—one—five—ten kegs of rum!” + </p> + <p> + He swayed to and fro in his excitement, yet their voices hardly rose above + a hoarse whisper all the time. “You forget,” answered the priest, “that it + is against the law, and that as a priest of my order, I am vowed to give + no rum to an Indian.” + </p> + <p> + “A vow? A vow? Name of God! what is a vow beside a woman—my wife?” + </p> + <p> + His misery and his rage were pitiful to see. + </p> + <p> + “Perjure my soul? Offer rum? Break my vow in the face of the enemies of + God’s Church? What have you done for me that I should do this for you, + John Bagot?” + </p> + <p> + “Coward!” was the man’s despairing cry, with a sudden threatening + movement. “Christ Himself would have broke a vow to save her.” + </p> + <p> + The grave, kind eyes of the priest met the other’s fierce gaze, and + quieted the wild storm that was about to break. + </p> + <p> + “Who am I that I should teach my Master?” he said solemnly. “What would + you give Christ, Bagot, if He had saved her to you?” + </p> + <p> + The man shook with grief, and tears rushed from his eyes, so suddenly and + fully had a new emotion passed through him. + </p> + <p> + “Give—give?” he cried; “I would give twenty years of my life!” + </p> + <p> + The figure of the priest stretched up with a gentle grandeur. Holding out + the iron crucifix, he said: “On your knees and swear it, John Bagot.” + </p> + <p> + There was something inspiring, commanding, in the voice and manner, and + Bagot, with a new hope rushing through his veins, knelt and repeated his + words. + </p> + <p> + The priest turned to the door, and called, “Madame Lucette!” + </p> + <p> + The boy, hearing, waked, and sat up in bed suddenly. “Mother! mother!” he + cried, as the door flew open. The mother came to her husband’s arms, + laughing and weeping, and an instant afterwards was pouring out her love + and anxiety over her child. + </p> + <p> + Father Corraine now faced the man, and with a soft exaltation of voice and + manner, said: + </p> + <p> + “John Bagot, in the name of Christ, I demand twenty years of your life—of + love and obedience of God. I broke my vow, I perjured my soul, I bought + your wife with ten kegs of rum!” + </p> + <p> + The tall hunter dropped again to his knees, and caught the priest’s hand + to kiss it. + </p> + <p> + “No, no—this!” the priest said, and laid his iron crucifix against + the other’s lips. + </p> + <p> + Dominique’s voice came clearly through the room: “Mother, I saw the white + swan fly away through the door when you came in.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, my dear,” she said, “there was no white swan.” But she clasped + the boy to her breast protectingly, and whispered an ave. + </p> + <p> + “Peace be to this house,” said the voice of the priest. And there was + peace: for the child lived, and the man has loved, and has kept his vow, + even unto this day. + </p> + <p> + For the visions of the boy, who can know the divers ways in which God + speaks to the children of men? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AT BAMBER’S BOOM + </h2> + <p> + His trouble came upon him when he was old. To the hour of its coming he + had been of shrewd and humourous disposition. He had married late in life, + and his wife had died, leaving him one child—a girl. She grew to + womanhood, bringing him daily joy. She was beloved in the settlement; and + there was no one at Bamber’s Boom, in the valley of the Madawaska, but was + startled and sorry when it turned out that Dugard, the river-boss, was + married. He floated away down the river, with his rafts and drives of + logs, leaving the girl sick and shamed. They knew she was sick at heart, + because she grew pale and silent; they did not know for some months how + shamed she was. Then it was that Mrs. Lauder, the sister of the Roman + Catholic missionary, Father Halen, being a woman of notable character and + kindness, visited her and begged her to tell all. + </p> + <p> + Though the girl—Nora—was a Protestant, Mrs. Lauder did this: + but it brought sore grief to her. At first she could hardly bear to look + at the girl’s face, it was so hopeless, so numb to the world: it had the + indifference of despair. Rumour now became hateful fact. When the old man + was told, he gave one great cry, then sat down, his hands pressed hard + between his knees, his body trembling, his eyes staring before him. + </p> + <p> + It was Father Halen who told him. He did it as man to man, and not as a + priest, having travelled fifty miles for the purpose. “George Magor,” said + he, “it’s bad, I know, but bear it—with the help of God. And be kind + to the girl.” + </p> + <p> + The old man answered nothing. “My friend,” the priest continued, “I hope + you’ll forgive me for telling you. I thought ‘twould be better from me, + than to have it thrown at you in the settlement. We’ve been friends one + way and another, and my heart aches for you, and my prayers go with you.” + </p> + <p> + The old man raised his sunken eyes, all their keen humour gone, and spoke + as though each word were dug from his heart. “Say no more, Father Halen.” + Then he reached out, caught the priest’s hand in his gnarled fingers, and + wrung it. + </p> + <p> + The father never spoke a harsh word to the girl. Otherwise he seemed to + harden into stone. When the Protestant missionary came, he would not see + him. The child was born before the river-drivers came along again the next + year with their rafts and logs. There was a feeling abroad that it would + be ill for Dugard if he chanced to camp at Bamber’s Boom. The look of the + old man’s face was ominous, and he was known to have an iron will. + </p> + <p> + Dugard was a handsome man, half French, half Scotch, swarthy and admirably + made. He was proud of his strength, and showily fearless in danger. For + there were dangerous hours to the river life: when, for instance, a mass + of logs became jammed at a rapids, and must be loosened; or a crib struck + into the wrong channel, or, failing to enter a slide straight, came at a + nasty angle to it, its timbers wrenched and tore apart, and its crew, with + their great oars, were plumped into the busy current. He had been known to + stand singly in some perilous spot when one log, the key to the jam, must + be shifted to set free the great tumbled pile. He did everything with a + dash. The handspike was waved and thrust into the best leverage, the long + robust cry, “O-hee-hee-hoi!” rolled over the waters, there was a devil’s + jumble of logs, and he played a desperate game with them, tossing here, + leaping there, balancing elsewhere, till, reaching the smooth rush of logs + in the current, he ran across them to the shore as they spun beneath his + feet. + </p> + <p> + His gang of river-drivers, with their big drives of logs, came sweeping + down one beautiful day of early summer, red-shifted, shouting, + good-tempered. It was about this time that Pierre came to know Magor. + </p> + <p> + It was the old man’s duty to keep the booms of several great lumbering + companies, and to watch the logs when the river-drivers were engaged + elsewhere. Occasionally he took a place with the men, helping to make + cribs and rafts. Dugard worked for one lumber company, Magor for others. + Many in the settlement showed Dugard how much he was despised. Some warned + him that Magor had said he would break him into pieces; it seemed possible + that Dugard might have a bad hour with the people of Bamber’s Boom. + Dugard, though he swelled and strutted, showed by a furtive eye and a + sinister watchfulness that he felt himself in an atmosphere of danger. But + he spoke of his wickedness lightly as, “A slip—a little accident, + mon ami.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre said to him one day: “Bien, Dugard, you are a bold man to come here + again. Or is it that you think old men are cowards?” + </p> + <p> + Dugard, blustering, laid his hand suddenly upon his case-knife. + </p> + <p> + Pierre laughed softly, contemptuously, came over, and throwing out his + perfectly formed but not robust chest in the fashion of Dugard, added: + “Ho, ho, monsieur the butcher, take your time at that. There is too much + blood in your carcass. You have quarrels plenty on your hands without + this. Come, don’t be a fool and a scoundrel too.” + </p> + <p> + Dugard grinned uneasily, and tried to turn the thing off as a joke, and + Pierre, who laughed still a little more, said: “It would be amusing to see + old Magor and Dugard fight. It would be—so equal.” There was a keen + edge to Pierre’s tones, but Dugard dared not resent it. + </p> + <p> + One day Magor and Dugard must meet. The square-timber of the two companies + had got tangled at a certain point, and gangs from both must set them + loose. They were camped some distance from each other. There was rivalry + between them, and it was hinted that if any trouble came from the meeting + of Magor and Dugard the gangs would pay off old scores with each other. + Pierre wished to prevent this. It seemed to him that the two men should + stand alone in the affair. He said as much here and there to members of + both camps, for he was free of both: a tribute to his genius at poker. + </p> + <p> + The girl, Nora, was apprehensive—for her father; she hated the other + man now. Pierre was courteous to her, scrupulous in word and look, and + fond of her child. He had always shown a gentleness to children, which + seemed little compatible with his character; but for this young outlaw in + the world he had something more. He even laboured carefully to turn the + girl’s father in its favour; but as yet to little purpose. He was thought + ful of the girl too. He only went to the house when he knew her father was + present, or when she was away. Once while he was there, Father Halen and + his sister, Mrs. Lauder, came. They found Pierre with the child, rocking + the cradle, and humming as he did so an old song of the coureurs de bois: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Out of the hills comes a little white deer, + Poor little vaurien, o, ci, ci! + Come to my home, to my home down here, + Sister and brother and child o’ me + Poor little, poor little vaurien!” + </pre> + <p> + Pierre was alone, save for the old woman who had cared for the home since + Nora’s trouble came. The priest was anxious lest any harm should come from + Dugard’s presence at Bamber’s Boom. He knew Pierre’s doubtful reputation, + but still he knew he could speak freely and would be answered honestly. + “What will happen?” he abruptly asked. + </p> + <p> + “What neither you nor I should try to prevent, m’sieu’,” was Pierre’s + reply. + </p> + <p> + “Magor will do the man injury?” + </p> + <p> + “What would you have? Put the matter on your own hearthstone, eh?... + Pardon, if I say these things bluntly.” Pierre still lightly rocked the + cradle with one foot. + </p> + <p> + “But vengeance is in God’s hands.” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’,” said the half-breed, “vengeance also is man’s, else why did we + ten men from Fort Cypress track down the Indians who murdered your + brother, the good priest, and kill them one by one?” + </p> + <p> + Father Halen caught his sister as she swayed, and helped her to a chair, + then turned a sad face on Pierre. “Were you—were you one of that + ten?” he asked, overcome; and he held out his hand. + </p> + <p> + The two river-driving camps joined at Mud Cat Point, where was the crush + of great timber. The two men did not at first come face to face, but it + was noticed by Pierre, who smoked on the bank while the others worked, + that the old man watched his enemy closely. The work of undoing the great + twist of logs was exciting, and they fell on each other with a great sound + as they were pried off, and went sliding, grinding, into the water. At one + spot they were piled together, massive and high. These were left to the + last. + </p> + <p> + It was here that the two met. Old Magor’s face was quiet, if a little + haggard; and his eyes looked out from under his shaggy brows piercingly. + Dugard’s manner was swaggering, and he swore horribly at his gang. + Presently he stood at a point alone, working at an obstinate log. He was + at the foot of an incline of timber, and he was not aware that Magor had + suddenly appeared at the top of that incline. He heard his name called out + sharply. Swinging round, he saw Magor thrusting a handspike under a huge + timber, hanging at the top of the incline. He was standing in a hollow, a + kind of trench. He was shaken with fear, for he saw the old man’s design. + He gave a cry and made as if to jump out of the way, but with a laugh + Magor threw his whole weight on the handspike, the great timber slid + swiftly down and crushed Dugard from his thighs to his feet, breaking his + legs terribly. The old man called down at him: “A slip—a little + accident, mon ami!” Then, shouldering his handspike, he made his way + through the silent gangs to the shore, and so on homewards. + </p> + <p> + Magor had done what he wished. Dugard would be a cripple for life; his + beauty was all spoiled and broken: there was much to do to save his life. + II + </p> + <p> + Nora also about this time took to her bed with fever. Again and again + Pierre rode thirty miles and back to get ice for her head. All were kind + to her now. The vengeance upon Dugard seemed to have wiped out much of her + shame in the eyes of Bamber’s Boom. Such is the way of the world. He that + has the last blow is in the eye of advantage. When Nora began to recover, + the child fell ill also. In the sickness of the child the old man had a + great temptation—far greater than that concerning Dugard. As the + mother grew better the child became much worse. One night the doctor came, + driving over from another settlement, and said that if the child got sleep + till morning it would probably live, for the crisis had come. He left an + opiate to procure the sleep, the same that had been given to the mother. + If it did not sleep, it would die. Pierre was present at this time. + </p> + <p> + All through the child’s illness the old man’s mind had been tossed to and + fro. If the child died, the living stigma would be gone; there would be no + reminder of his daughter’s shame in the eyes of the world. They could go + away from Bamber’s Boom, and begin life again somewhere. But, then, there + was the child itself which had crept into his heart,—he knew not + how, and would not be driven out. He had never, till it was taken ill, + even touched it, nor spoken to it. To destroy its life!—Well, would + it not be better for the child to go out of all possible shame, into + peace, the peace of the grave? + </p> + <p> + This night he sat down beside the cradle, holding the bottle of medicine + and a spoon in his hand. The hot, painful face of the child fascinated + him. He looked from it to the bottle, and back, then again to the bottle. + He started, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. For though the doctor + had told him in words the proper dose, he had by mistake written on the + label the same dose as for the mother! Here was the responsibility shifted + in any case. More than once the old man uncorked the bottle, and once he + dropped out the opiate in the spoon steadily; but the child opened its + suffering eyes at him, its little wasted hand wandered over the coverlet, + and he could not do it just then. But again the passion for its + destruction came on him, because he heard his daughter moaning in the + other room. He said to himself that she would be happier when it was gone. + But as he stooped over the cradle, no longer hesitating, the door softly + opened, and Pierre entered. The old man shuddered, and drew back from the + cradle. Pierre saw the look of guilt in the old man’s face, and his + instinct told him what was happening. He took the bottle from the + trembling hand, and looked at the label. + </p> + <p> + “What is the proper dose?” he asked, seeing that a mistake had been made + by the doctor. + </p> + <p> + In a hoarse whisper Magor told him. “It may be too late,” Pierre added. He + knelt down, with light fingers opened the child’s mouth, and poured the + medicine in slowly. The old man stood for a time rigid, looking at them + both. Then he came round to the other side of the cradle, and seated + himself beside it, his eyes fixed on the child’s face. For a long time + they sat there. At last the old man said: “Will he die, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid so,” answered Pierre painfully. “But we shall see.” Then + early teaching came to him, never to be entirely obliterated, and he + added: “Has the child been baptised?” + </p> + <p> + The old man shook his head. “‘Will you do it?” asked Pierre hesitatingly. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t—I can’t,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + Pierre smiled a little ironically, as if at himself, got some water in a + cup, came over, and said: “Remember, I’m a Papist!” + </p> + <p> + A motion of the hand answered him. + </p> + <p> + He dipped his fingers in the water, and dropped it ever so lightly on the + child’s forehead. + </p> + <p> + “George Magor,”—it was the old man’s name,—“I baptise thee in + the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.” Then + he drew the sign of the cross on the infant’s forehead. + </p> + <p> + Sitting down, he watched beside the child. After a little he heard a long + choking sigh. Looking up, he saw tears slowly dropping from Magor’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + And to this day the child and the mother of the child are dear to the old + man’s heart. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BRIDGE HOUSE + </h2> + <p> + It stood on a wide wall between two small bridges. These were approaches + to the big covered bridge spanning the main channel of the Madawaska + River, and when swelled by the spring thaws and rains, the two flanking + channels divided at the foundations of the house, and rustled away through + the narrow paths of the small bridges to the rapids. You could stand at + any window in the House and watch the ugly, rushing current, gorged with + logs, come battering at the wall, jostle between the piers, and race on to + the rocks and the dam and the slide beyond. You stepped from the front + door upon the wall, which was a road between the bridges, and from the + back door into the river itself. + </p> + <p> + The House had once been a tavern. It looked a wayfarer, like its patrons + the river-drivers, with whom it was most popular. You felt that it had no + part in the career of the village on either side, but was like a rock in a + channel, at which a swimmer caught or a vagrant fish loitered. + </p> + <p> + Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in the springtime or early summer, + throngs of river-drivers and their bosses sauntered at its doors, or hung + over the railing of the wall, as they talked and smoked. + </p> + <p> + The glory of the Bridge House suddenly declined. That was because Finley, + the owner, a rich man, came to hate the place—his brother’s blood + stained the barroom floor. He would have destroyed the house but that John + Rupert, the beggared gentleman came to him, and wished to rent it for a + dwelling. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably poor for many years, but he had + a breeding and a manner superior to anyone at Bamber’s Boom. He was too + old for a labourer, he had no art or craftsmanship; his little money was + gone in foolish speculations, and he was dependent on his granddaughter’s + slight earnings from music teaching and needlework. But he rented an acre + of ground from Finley, and grew vegetables; he gathered driftwood from the + river for his winter fire, and made up the accounts of the storekeeper + occasionally. Yet it was merely keeping off starvation. He was not + popular. He had no tongue for the meaningless village talk. People held + him in a kind of awe, and yet they felt a mean satisfaction when they saw + him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on the shore to be dragged away—the + last resort of the poor, for which they blush. + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Rupert asked for the House, Finley knew the chances were he would + not get the rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old man, he gave it + to him at a low rate. He closed up the bar-room, however, and it was never + opened afterwards. + </p> + <p> + So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his granddaughter, came to live + there. Judith was a blithe, lissome creature, who had never known comfort + or riches: they were taken from her grandfather before she was born, and + her father and mother both died when she was a little child. But she had + been taught by her grandmother, when she lived, and by her grandfather, + and she had felt the graces of refined life. Withal, she had a singular + sympathy for the rude, strong life of the river. She was glad when they + came to live at the Bridge House, and shamed too: glad because they could + live apart from the other villagers; shamed because it exposed her to the + curiosity of those who visited the House, thinking it was still a tavern. + But that was only for a time. + </p> + <p> + One night Jules Brydon, the young river-boss, camped with his men at + Bamber’s Boom. He was of parents Scotch and French, and the amalgamation + of races in him made a striking product. He was cool and indomitable, yet + hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch him at the head of his men, + breaking up a jam of logs, and it was a delight to hear him of an evening + as he sang: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Have you heard the cry of the Long Lachine, + When happy is the sun in the morning? + The rapids long and the banks of green, + As we ride away in the morning, + On the froth of the Long Lachine?” + </pre> + <p> + One day, soon after they came, the dams and booms were opened above, and + forests of logs came riding down to Bamber’s Boom. The current was strong, + and the logs came on swiftly. As Brydon’s gang worked, they saw a man out + upon a small raft of driftwood, which had been suddenly caught in the + drive of logs, and was carried out towards the middle channel. The + river-drivers laughed, for they failed to see that the man was old, and + that he could not run across the rolling logs to the shore. The old man, + evidently hopeless, laid down his pike-pole, folded his hands, and drifted + with the logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They began to + understand. + </p> + <p> + Brydon saw a woman standing at a window of the House waving her arms, and + there floated up the river the words, “Father! father!” He caught up a + pikepole, and ran over that spinning floor of logs to the raft. The old + man’s face was white, but there was no fear in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot run the logs,” he said at once; “I never did; I am too old, and + I slip. It’s no use. It is my granddaughter at that window. Tell her that + I’ll think of her to the last.... Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man’s voice was husky; he could not + cry out, but he waved his hand to the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, save him!” came from her faintly. + </p> + <p> + Brydon’s eyes were now on the covered bridge. Their raft was in the + channel, coming straight between two piers. He measured his chances. He + knew if he slipped, doing what he intended, that both might be drowned, + and certainly Mr. Rupert; for the logs were close, and to drop among them + was a bad business. If they once closed over there was an end of + everything. + </p> + <p> + “Keep quite still,” he said, “and when I throw you catch.” + </p> + <p> + He took the slight figure in his arms, sprang out upon the slippery logs, + and ran. A cheer went up from the men on the shore, and the people who + were gathering on the bridges, too late to be of service. Besides, the + bridge was closed, and there was only a small opening at the piers. For + one of these piers Brydon was making. He ran hard. Once he slipped and + nearly fell, but recovered. Then a floating tree suddenly lunged up and + struck him, so that he dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, and + strained for the pier. He was within a few feet of it as they came to the + bridge. The people gave a cry of fear, for they saw that there was no + chance of both making it; because, too, at the critical moment a space of + clear water showed near the pier. But Brydon raised John Rupert up, + balanced himself, and tossed him at the pier, where two river-drivers + stood stretching out their arms. An instant afterwards the old man was + with his granddaughter. But Brydon slipped and fell; the roots of a tree + bore him down, and he was gone beneath the logs! + </p> + <p> + There was a cry of horror from the watchers, then all was still. But below + the bridge they saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and then another + arm crowding them apart. Now a head and shoulders appeared. Luckily the + piece of timber which Brydon grasped was square, and did not roll. In a + moment he was standing on it. There was a wild shout of encouragement. He + turned his battered, blood-stained face to the bridge for an instant, and, + with a wave of the hand and a sharp look towards the rapids below, once + more sprang out. It was a brave sight, for the logs were in a narrower + channel and more riotous. He rubbed the blood out of his eyes that he + might see his way. The rolling forest gave him no quarter, but he came on, + rocking with weakness, to within a few rods of the shore. Then a + half-dozen of his men ran out on the logs,—they were packed closely + here,—caught him up, and brought him to dry ground. + </p> + <p> + They took him to the Bridge House. He was hurt more than he or they + thought. The old man and the girl met them at the door. Judith gave a + little cry when she saw the blood and Brydon’s bruised face. He lifted his + head as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their looks meeting, he took + his hat off. Her face flushed; she dropped her eyes. Her grandfather + seized Brydon’s big hand, and said some trembling words of thanks. The + girl stepped inside, made a bed for him upon the sofa, and got him + something to drink. She was very cool; she immediately asked Pierre to go + for the young doctor who had lately come to the place, and made ready warm + water with which she wiped Brydon’s blood-stained face and hands, and then + gave him some brandy. His comrades standing round watched her admiringly, + she was so deft and delicate. Brydon, as if to be nursed and cared for was + not manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly to a sitting posture, saying, + “Pshaw! I’m all right!” But he turned sick immediately, and Judith’s arms + caught his head and shoulders as he fell back. His face turned, and was + pillowed on her bosom. At this she blushed, but a look of singular dignity + came into her face. Those standing by were struck with a kind of awe; they + were used mostly to the daughters of habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her + sensitive face spoke a wonderful language: a divine gratitude and + thankfulness; and her eyes had a clear moisture which did not dim them. + The situation was trying to the river-drivers—it was too refined; + and they breathed more freely when they got outside and left the girl, her + grandfather, Pierre, and the young doctor alone with the injured man. + </p> + <p> + That was how the thing began. Pierre saw the conclusion of events from the + start. The young doctor did not. From the hour when he bound up Brydon’s + head, Judith’s fingers aiding him, he felt a spring in his blood new to + him. When he came to know exactly what it meant, and acted, it was too + late. He was much surprised that his advances were gently repulsed. He + pressed them hard: that was a mistake. He had an idea, not uncommon in + such cases, that he was conferring an honour. But he was very young. A + gold medal in anatomy is likely to turn a lad’s head at the start. He + falls into the error that the ability to demonstrate the medulla oblongata + should likewise suffice to convince the heart of a maid. Pierre enjoyed + the situation; he knew life all round; he had boxed the compass of + experience. + </p> + <p> + He believed in Judith. The old man interested him: he was a wreck out of + an unfamiliar life. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you see,” Pierre said to Brydon one day, as they sat on the high + cross-beams of the little bridge, “you can’t kill it in a man—what + he was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood over there. Broken down, + eh? Yes, but then there is something—a manner, an eye. He piles the + wood like champagne bottles. On the raft, you remember, he took off his + hat to death. That’s different altogether from us.” + </p> + <p> + He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and saw a troubled look. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” Brydon said, “he is different; and so is she.” + </p> + <p> + “She is a lady,” Pierre said, with slow emphasis. “She couldn’t hide it if + she tried. She plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. Made for + this?”—he waved his hand towards the Bridge House. “No, no! made for—” + </p> + <p> + He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swift + current. + </p> + <p> + Brydon frowned, then said: “Well, made for what, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked over Brydon’s shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on the + hillside. “Made for homes like that, not this,” he said, and he nodded + first towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House. (The cottage + belonged to the young doctor.) A growl like an animal’s came from Brydon, + and he clinched the other’s shoulder. Pierre glanced at the hand, then at + Brydon’s face, and said sharply: “Take it away.” + </p> + <p> + The hand dropped; but Brydon’s face was hot, and his eyes were hard. + </p> + <p> + Pierre continued: “But then women are strange. What you expect they will + not—no. Riches?—it is nothing; houses like that on the hill, + nothing. They have whims. The hut is as good as the house, with the + kitchen in the open where the river welts and washes, and a man—the + great man of the world to them—to play the little game of life + with.... Pshaw! you are idle: move; you are thick in the head: think hard; + you like the girl: speak.” + </p> + <p> + As he said this, there showed beneath them the front timbers of a small + crib of logs with a crew of two men, making for the rapids and the slide + below. Here was an adventure, for running the rapids with so slight a + craft and small a crew was smart work. Pierre, measuring the distance, and + with a “Look out, below!” swiftly let himself down by his arms as far as + he could, and then dropped to the timbers, as lightly as if it were a + matter of two feet instead of twelve. He waved a hand to Brydon, and the + crib shot on. Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran into the teeth + of the rapids, the long oars of the three men rising and falling to the + monotonous cry. The sun set out the men and the craft against the tall + dark walls of the river in strong relief, and Brydon was carried away from + what Pierre had been saying. He had a solid pleasure in watching, and he + sat up with a call of delight when he saw the crib drive at the slide. + Just glancing the edge, she shot through safely. His face blazed. + </p> + <p> + “A pretty sight!” said a voice behind him. + </p> + <p> + Without a word he swung round, and dropped, more heavily than Pierre, + beside Judith. + </p> + <p> + “It gets into our bones,” he said. “Of course, though it ain’t the same to + you,” he added, looking down at her over his shoulder. “You don’t care for + things so rough, mebbe?” + </p> + <p> + “I love the river,” she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “We’re a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We have to be. It’s a rowdy + business.” + </p> + <p> + “I never noticed that,” she replied, gravely smiling. “When I was small I + used to go to the river-drivers’ camps with my brother, and they were + always kind to us. They used to sing and play the fiddle, and joke; but I + didn’t think then that they were rowdy, and I don’t now. They were never + rough with us.” + </p> + <p> + “No one’d ever be rough with you,” was the reply. “Oh yes,” she said + suddenly, and turned her head away. She was thinking of what the young + doctor had said to her that morning; how like a foolish boy he had acted: + upbraiding her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things, as young + egoists always do. In years she was younger than he, but in wisdom much + older: in all things more wise and just. He had not struck her, but with + his reckless tongue he had cut her to the heart. “Oh yes,” she repeated, + and her eyes ran up to his face and over his great stalwart body; and then + she leaned over the railing and looked into the water. + </p> + <p> + “I’d break the man into pieces that was rough with you,” he said between + his teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Would you?” she asked in a whisper. Then, not giving him a chance to + reply, “We are very poor, you know, and some people are rough with the + poor—and proud. I remember,” she went on, simply, dreamily, and as + if talking to herself, “the day when we first came to the Bridge House. I + sat down on a box and looked at the furniture—it was so little—and + cried. Coming here seemed the last of what grandfather used to be. I + couldn’t help it. He sat down too, and didn’t say anything. He was very + pale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he looked at me. Then I got angry + with myself, and sprang up and went to work—and we get along pretty + well.” + </p> + <p> + She paused and sighed; then, after a minute: “I love the river. I don’t + believe I could be happy away from it. I should like to live on it, and + die on it, and be buried in it.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked so frail and dainty that his + voice, to himself, sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along the + railing to hers, and covered it tenderly—for so big a hand. She drew + her fingers away, but not very quickly. “Don’t!” she said, “and—and + someone is coming!” + </p> + <p> + There were footsteps behind them. It was her grandfather, carrying a board + fished from the river. He grasped the situation, and stood speechless with + wonder. He had never thought of this. He was a gentleman, in spite of all, + and this man was a common river-boss. Presently he drew himself up with an + air. The heavy board was still in his arms. Brydon came over and took the + board, looking him squarely in the eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Rupert,” he said, “I want to ask something.” The old man nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I helped you out of a bad scrape on the river?” Again the old man nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that I’m going to ask you to draw no + more driftwood from the Madawaska—not a stick, now or ever.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the only way we can keep from freezing in winter.” Mr. Rupert + scarcely knew what he said. Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away, then + answered: “I’ll keep you from freezing, if you’ll let me, you—and + Judith.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, please let us go into the house,” Judith said hastily. + </p> + <p> + She saw the young doctor driving towards them out of the covered bridge! + </p> + <p> + When Brydon went to join his men far down the river he left a wife behind + him at the Bridge House, where she and her grandfather were to stay until + the next summer. Then there would be a journey from Bamber’s Boom to a new + home. + </p> + <p> + In the late autumn he came, before he went away to the shanties in the + backwoods, and again in the winter just before the babe was born. Then he + went far up the river to Rice Lake and beyond, to bring down the drives of + logs for his Company. June came, and then there was a sudden sorrow at the + Bridge House. How great it was, Pierre’s words as he stood at the door one + evening will testify. He said to the young doctor: “Save the child, and + you shall have back the I O U on your house.” Which was also evidence that + the young doctor had fallen into the habit of gambling. + </p> + <p> + The young doctor looked hard at him. He had a selfish nature. “You can + only do what you can do,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Pierre’s eyes were sinister. “If you do not save it, one would guess why.” + </p> + <p> + The other started, flushed, was silent, and then said: “You think I’m a + coward. We shall see. There is a way, but it may fail.” + </p> + <p> + And though he sucked the diphtheria poison from the child’s throat, it + died the next night. + </p> + <p> + Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company had won was handed back with + such good advice as only a worldwise adventurer can give. + </p> + <p> + Of the child’s death its father did not know. They were not certain where + he was. But when the mother took to her bed again, the young doctor said + it was best that Brydon should come. Pierre had time and inclination to go + for him. But before he went he was taken to Judith’s bedside. Pierre had + seen life and death in many forms, but never anything quite like this: a + delicate creature floating away upon a summer current travelling in those + valleys which are neither of this life nor of that; but where you hear the + echoes of both, and are visited by solicitous spirits. There was no pain + in her face—she heard a little, familiar voice from high and + pleasant hills, and she knew, so wise are the dying, that her husband was + travelling after her, and that they would be all together soon. But she + did not speak of that. For the knowledge born of such a time is locked up + in the soul. + </p> + <p> + Pierre was awe-stricken. Unconsciously he crossed himself. + </p> + <p> + “Tell him to come quickly,” she said, “if you find him,”—her fingers + played with the coverlet,—“for I wish to comfort him.... Someone + said that you were bad, Pierre. I do not believe it. You were sorry when + my baby went away. I am—going away—too. But do not tell him + that. Tell him I cannot walk about. I want him to carry me—to carry + me. Will you?” Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping along the coverlet + to him; but it was only instinct that guided him, for he could not see. He + started on his journey with his hat pulled down over his eyes. + </p> + <p> + One evening when the river was very high and it was said that Brydon’s + drives of logs would soon be down, a strange thing happened at the Bridge + House. + </p> + <p> + The young doctor had gone, whispering to Mr. Rupert that he would come + back later. He went out on tiptoe, as from the presence of an angel. His + selfishness had dropped away from him. The evening wore on, and in the + little back room a woman’s voice said: + </p> + <p> + “Is it morning yet, father?” + </p> + <p> + “It is still day. The sun has not set, my child.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought it had gone, it seemed so dark.” + </p> + <p> + “You have been asleep, Judith. You have come out of the dark.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I have come out into the darkness—into the world.” + </p> + <p> + “You will see better when you are quite awake.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I could see the river, father. Will you go and look?” + </p> + <p> + Then there was a silence. “Well?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “It is beautiful,” he said, “and the sun is still bright.” + </p> + <p> + “You see as far as Indian Island?” + </p> + <p> + “I can see the white comb of the reef beyond it, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “And no one—is coming?” + </p> + <p> + “There are men making for the shore, and the fires are burning, but no one + is—coming this way.... He would come by the road, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, by the river. Pierre has not found him. Can you see the Eddy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is all quiet there; nothing but the logs tossing round it.” + </p> + <p> + “We used to sit there—he and I—by the big cedar tree. + Everything was so cool and sweet. There was only the sound of the + force-pump and the swallowing of the Eddy. They say that a woman was + drowned there, and that you can see her face in the water, if you happen + there at sunrise, weeping and smiling also: a picture in the water.... Do + you think it true, father?” + </p> + <p> + “Life is so strange, and who knows what is not life, my child?” + </p> + <p> + “When baby was dying I held it over the water beneath that window, where + the sunshine falls in the evening; and it looked down once before its + spirit passed like a breath over my face. Maybe, its look will stay, for + him to see when he comes. It was just below where you stand.... Father, + can you see its face?” “No, Judith; nothing but the water and the + sunshine.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, carry me to the window.” + </p> + <p> + When this was done she suddenly leaned forward with shining eyes and + anxious fingers. “My baby! My baby!” she said. + </p> + <p> + She looked up the river, but her eyes were fading, she could not see far. + “It is all a grey light,” she said, “I cannot see well.” Yet she smiled. + “Lay me down again, father,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + After a little she sank into a slumber. All at once she started up. “The + river, the beautiful river!” she cried out gently. Then, at the last, “Oh, + my dear, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + And so she came out of the valley into the high hills. Later he was left + alone with his dead. The young doctor and others had come and gone. He + would watch till morning. He sat long beside her, numb to the world. At + last he started, for he heard a low clear call behind the House. He went + out quickly to the little platform, and saw through the dusk a man drawing + himself up. It was Brydon. He caught the old man’s shoulders convulsively. + “How is she?” he asked. “Come in, my son,” was the low reply. The old man + saw a grief greater than his own. He led the husband to the room where the + wife lay beautiful and still. “She is better, as you see,” he said + bravely. + </p> + <p> + The hours went, and the two sat near the body, one on either side. They + knew not what was going on in the world. + </p> + <p> + As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor sat silent in that cottage on + the hillside. They were roused at last. There came up to Pierre’s keen + ears the sound of the river. + </p> + <p> + “Let us go out,” he said; “the river is flooding. You can hear the logs.” + </p> + <p> + They came out and watched. The river went swishing, swilling past, and the + dull boom of the logs as they struck the piers of the bridge or some + building on the shore came rolling to them. + </p> + <p> + “The dams and booms have burst!” Pierre said. He pointed to the camps far + up the river. By the light of the camp-fires there appeared a wide + weltering flood of logs and debris. Pierre’s eyes shifted to the Bridge + House. In one room was a light. He stepped out and down, and the other + followed. They had almost reached the shore, when Pierre cried out + sharply: “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing down upon the Bridge House. It + was a big shed that had been carried away, and, jammed between timbers, + had not broken up. There was no time for warning. It came on swiftly, + heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grinding sound, and then they saw + the light of that one room move on, waving a little to and fro-on to the + rapids, the cohorts of logs crowding hard after. + </p> + <p> + Where the light was two men had started to their feet when the crash came. + They felt the House move. “Run-save yourself!” cried the old man quietly. + “We are lost!” + </p> + <p> + The floor rocked. + </p> + <p> + “Go,” he said again. “I will stay with her.” + </p> + <p> + “She is mine,” Brydon said; and he took her in his arms. “I will not go.” + </p> + <p> + They could hear the rapids below. The old man steadied himself in the deep + water on the floor, and caught out yearningly at the cold hands. + </p> + <p> + “Come close, come close,” said Brydon. “Closer; put your arms round her.” + </p> + <p> + The old man did so. They were locked in each other’s arms—dead and + living. + </p> + <p> + The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of joy: “We therefore commit her + body to the deep—!” + </p> + <p> + The three were never found. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EPAULETTES + </h2> + <p> + Old Athabasca, chief of the Little Crees, sat at the door of his lodge, + staring down into the valley where Fort Pentecost lay, and Mitawawa his + daughter sat near him, fretfully pulling at the fringe of her fine + buckskin jacket. She had reason to be troubled. Fyles the trader had put a + great indignity upon Athabasca. A factor of twenty years before, in + recognition of the chief’s merits and in reward of his services, had + presented him with a pair of epaulettes, left in the Fort by some officer + in Her Majesty’s service. A good, solid, honest pair of epaulettes, well + fitted to stand the wear and tear of those high feasts and functions at + which the chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders. They were the + admiration of his own tribe, the wonder of others, the envy of many + chiefs. It was said that Athabasca wore them creditably, and was no more + immobile and grand-mannered than became a chief thus honoured above his + kind. + </p> + <p> + But the years went, and there came a man to Fort Pentecost who knew not + Athabasca. He was young, and tall and strong, had a hot temper, knew + naught of human nature, was possessed by a pride more masterful than his + wisdom, and a courage stronger than his tact. He was ever for + high-handedness, brooked no interference, and treated the Indians more as + Company’s serfs than as Company’s friends and allies. Also, he had an eye + for Mitawawa, and found favour in return, though to what depth it took a + long time to show. The girl sat high in the minds and desires of the young + braves, for she had beauty of a heathen kind, a deft and dainty finger for + embroidered buckskin, a particular fortune with a bow and arrow, and the + fleetest foot. There were mutterings because Fyles the white man came to + sit often in Athabasca’s lodge. He knew of this, but heeded not at all. At + last Konto, a young brave who very accurately guessed at Fyles’ + intentions, stopped him one day on the Grey Horse Trail, and in a soft, + indolent voice begged him to prove his regard in a fight without weapons, + to the death, the survivor to give the other burial where he fell. Fyles + was neither fool nor coward. It would have been foolish to run the risk of + leaving Fort and people masterless for an Indian’s whim; it would have + been cowardly to do nothing. So he whipped out a revolver, and bade his + rival march before him to the Fort; which Konto very calmly did, begging + the favour of a bit of tobacco as he went. + </p> + <p> + Fyles demanded of Athabasca that he should sit in judgment, and should at + least banish Konto from his tribe, hinting the while that he might have to + put a bullet into Konto’s refractory head if the thing were not done. He + said large things in the name of the H.B.C., and was surprised that + Athabasca let them pass unmoved. But that chief, after long consideration, + during which he drank Company’s coffee and ate Company’s pemmican, + declared that he could do nothing: for Konto had made a fine offer, and a + grand chance of a great fight had been missed. This was in the presence of + several petty officers and Indians and woodsmen at the Fort. Fyles had + vanity and a nasty temper. He swore a little, and with words of bluster + went over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief’s shoulders as a + punishment, a mark of degradation. The chief said nothing. He got up, and + reached out his hands as if to ask them back; and when Fyles refused, he + went away, drawing his blanket high over his shoulders. It was wont before + to lie loosely about him, to show his badges of captaincy and alliance. + </p> + <p> + This was about the time that the Indians were making ready for the + buffalo, and when their chief took to his lodge, and refused to leave it, + they came to ask him why. And they were told. They were for making + trouble, but the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he would settle + it in his own way. He would not go to the hunt. Konto, he said, should + take his place; and when his braves came back there should be great + feasting, for then the matter would be ended. + </p> + <p> + Half the course of the moon and more, and Athabasca came out of his lodge—the + first time in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace. He and his + daughter sat silent and watchful at the door. There had been no word + between Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mitawawa and Fyles. The Fort + was well-nigh tenantless, for the half-breeds also had gone after buffalo, + and only the trader, a clerk, and a half-breed cook were left. + </p> + <p> + Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: she had held her peace so long + that even her slow Indian nature could endure no more. “What will my + father Athabasca do?” she asked. “With idleness the flesh grows soft, and + the iron melts from the arm.” + </p> + <p> + “But when the thoughts are stone, the body is as that of the Mighty Men of + the Kimash Hills. When the bow is long drawn, beware the arrow.” + </p> + <p> + “It is no answer,” she said: “what will my father do?” + </p> + <p> + “They were of gold,” he answered, “that never grew rusty. My people were + full of wonder when they stood before me, and the tribes had envy as they + passed. It is a hundred moons and one red midsummer moon since the Great + Company put them on my shoulders. They were light to carry, but it was as + if I bore an army. No other chief was like me. That is all over. When the + tribes pass they will laugh, and my people will scorn me if I do not come + out to meet them with the yokes of gold.” + </p> + <p> + “But what will my father do?” she persisted. + </p> + <p> + “I have had many thoughts, and at night I have called on the Spirits who + rule. From the top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft drum, and + called, and sung the hymn which wakes the sleeping Spirits: and I know the + way.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the way?” Her eyes filled with a kind of fear or trouble, and + many times they shifted from the Fort to her father, and back again. The + chief was silent. Then anger leapt into her face. + </p> + <p> + “Why does my father fear to speak to his child?” she said. “I will speak + plain. I love the man: but I love my father also.” + </p> + <p> + She stood up, and drew her blanket about her, one hand clasped proudly on + her breast. “I cannot remember my mother; but I remember when I first + looked down from my hammock in the pine tree, and saw my father sitting by + the fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker, for the pines made + great shadows. I cried out, and he came and took me down, and laid me + between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat from the pot. He talked + much to me, and his voice was finer than any other. There is no one like + my father—Konto is nothing: but the voice of the white man, Fyles, + had golden words that our braves do not know, and I listened. Konto did a + brave thing. Fyles, because he was a great man of the Company, would not + fight, and drove him like a dog. Then he made my father as a worm in the + eyes of the world. I would give my life for Fyles the trader, but I would + give more than my life to wipe out my father’s shame, and to show that + Konto of the Little Crees is no dog. I have been carried by the hands of + the old men of my people, I have ridden the horses of the young men: their + shame is my shame.” + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the chief had never lifted from the Fort: nor from his look + could you have told that he heard his daughter’s words. For a moment he + was silent, then a deep fire came into his eyes, and his wide heavy brows + drew up so that the frown of anger was gone. At last, as she waited, he + arose, put out a hand and touched her forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Mitawawa has spoken well,” he said. “There will be an end. The yokes of + gold are mine: an honour given cannot be taken away. He has stolen; he is + a thief. He would not fight Konto: but I am a chief and he shall fight me. + I am as great as many men—I have carried the golden yokes: we will + fight for them. I thought long, for I was afraid my daughter loved the man + more than her people: but now I will break him in pieces. Has Mitawawa + seen him since the shameful day?” + </p> + <p> + “He has come to the lodge, but I would not let him in unless he brought + the epaulettes. He said he would bring them when Konto was punished. I + begged of him as I never begged of my own father, but he was hard as the + ironwood tree. I sent him away. Yet there is no tongue like his in the + world; he is tall and beautiful, and has the face of a spirit.” + </p> + <p> + From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With a pair of field-glasses he could + follow their actions, could almost read their faces. “There’ll be a lot of + sulking about those epaulettes, Mallory,” he said at last, turning to his + clerk. “Old Athabasca has a bee in his bonnet.” + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t it be just as well to give ‘em back, sir?” Mallory had been at + Fort Pentecost a long time, and he understood Athabasca and his Indians. + He was a solid, slow-thinking old fellow, but he had that wisdom of the + north which can turn from dove to serpent and from serpent to lion in the + moment. + </p> + <p> + “Give ‘em back, Mallory? I’ll see him in Jericho first, unless he goes on + his marrow-bones and kicks Konto out of the camp.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, sir. But I think we’d better keep an eye open.” + </p> + <p> + “Eye open, be hanged! If he’d been going to riot he’d have done so before + this. Besides, the girl—!” Mallory looked long and earnestly at his + master, whose forehead was glued to the field-glass. His little eyes moved + as if in debate, his slow jaws opened once or twice. At last he said: “I’d + give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if I was you, unless I meant to marry + her.” Fyles suddenly swung round. “Keep your place, blast you, Mallory, + and keep your morals too. One’d think you were a missionary.” Then with a + sudden burst of anger: “Damn it all, if my men don’t stand by me against a + pack of treacherous Indians, I’d better get out.” + </p> + <p> + “Your men will stand by you, sir: no fear. I’ve served three traders here, + and my record is pretty clean, Mr. Fyles. But I’ll say it to your face, + whether you like it or not, that you’re not as good a judge of the Injin + as me, or even Duc the cook: and that’s straight as I can say it, Mr. + Fyles.” + </p> + <p> + Fyles paced up and down in anger—not speaking; but presently threw + up the glass, and looked towards Athabasca’s lodge. “They’re gone,” he + said presently; “I’ll go and see them to-morrow. The old fool must do what + I want, or there’ll be ructions.” + </p> + <p> + The moon was high over Fort Pentecost when Athabasca entered the silent + yard. The dogs growled, but Indian dogs growl without reason, and no one + heeds them. The old chief stood a moment looking at the windows, upon + which slush-lights were throwing heavy shadows. He went to Fyles’ window: + no one was in the room. He went to another: Mallory and Duc were sitting + at a table. Mallory had the epaulettes, looking at them and fingering the + hooks by which Athabasca had fastened them on. Duc was laughing: he + reached over for an epaulette, tossed it up, caught it and threw it down + with a guffaw. Then the door opened, and Athabasca walked in, seized the + epaulettes, and went swiftly out again. Just outside the door Mallory + clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Duc caught at the epaulettes. + </p> + <p> + Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once there was a cold white flash, and + Duc came huddling to Mallory’s feet. For a brief instant Mallory and the + Indian fell apart, then Athabasca with a contemptuous fairness tossed his + knife away, and ran in on his man. They closed; strained, swayed, became a + tangled wrenching mass; and then Mallory was lifted high into the air, and + came down with a broken back. + </p> + <p> + Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hurried away, breathing hard, and + hugging them to his bare red-stained breast. He had nearly reached the + gate when he heard a cry. He did not turn, but a heavy stone caught him + high in the shoulders, and he fell on his face and lay clutching the + epaulettes in his outstretched hands. + </p> + <p> + Fyles’ own hands were yet lifted with the effort of throwing, when he + heard the soft rush of footsteps, and someone came swiftly into his + embrace. A pair of arms ran round his shoulders—lips closed with his—something + ice-cold and hard touched his neck—he saw a bright flash at his + throat. + </p> + <p> + In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sitting with wild eyes by her father’s + body. She had fastened the epaulettes on its shoulders. Fyles and his men + made a grim triangle of death at the door of the Fort. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He stands in the porch of the world— + (Why should the door be shut?) + The grey wolf waits at his heel, + (Why is the window barred?) + Wild is the trail from the Kimash Hills, + The blight has fallen on bush and tree, + The choking earth has swallowed the streams, + Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol: + (Why should the door be shut?) + The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide— + (Why is the window barred?)” + </pre> + <p> + Pierre stopped to listen. The voice singing was clear and soft, yet strong—a + mezzo-soprano without any culture save that of practice and native taste. + It had a singular charm—a sweet, fantastic sincerity. He stood still + and fastened his eyes on the house, a few rods away. It stood on a knoll + perching above Fort Ste. Anne. Years had passed since Pierre had visited + the Fort, and he was now on his way to it again, after many wanderings. + The house had stood here in the old days, and he remembered it very well, + for against it John Marcey, the Company’s man, was shot by Stroke Laforce, + of the Riders of the Plains. Looking now, he saw that the shutter, which + had been pulled off to bear the body away, was hanging there just as he + had placed it, with seven of its slats broken and a dark stain in one + corner. Something more of John Marcey than memory attached to that + shutter. His eyes dwelt on it long he recalled the scene: a night with + stars and no moon, a huge bonfire to light the Indians, at their dance, + and Marcey, Laforce, and many others there, among whom was Lucille, the + little daughter of Gyng the Factor. Marcey and Laforce were only boys + then, neither yet twenty-three, and they were friendly rivals with the + sweet little coquette, who gave her favors with a singular impartiality + and justice. Once Marcey had given her a gold spoon. Laforce responded + with a tiny, fretted silver basket. Laforce was delighted to see her + carrying her basket, till she opened it and showed the spoon inside. There + were many mock quarrels, in one of which Marcey sent her a letter by the + Company’s courier, covered with great seals, saying, “I return you the + hairpin, the egg-shell, and the white wolf’s tooth. Go to your Laforce, or + whatever his ridiculous name may be.” + </p> + <p> + In this way the pretty game ran on, the little goldenhaired, golden-faced, + golden-voiced child dancing so gayly in their hearts, but nestling in them + too, after her wilful fashion, until the serious thing came—the + tragedy. + </p> + <p> + On the mad night when all ended, she was in the gayest, the most elf-like + spirits. All went well until Marcey dug a hole in the ground, put a stone + in it, and, burying it, said it was Laforce’s heart. Then Laforce + pretended to ventriloquise, and mocked Marcey’s slight stutter. That was + the beginning of the trouble, and Lucille, like any lady of the world, + troubled at Laforce’s unkindness, tried to smooth things over—tried + very gravely. But the playful rivalry of many months changed its + composition suddenly as through some delicate yet powerful chemical + action, and the savage in both men broke out suddenly. Where motives and + emotions are few they are the more vital, their action is the more + violent. No one knew quite what the two young men said to each other, but + presently, while the Indian dance was on, they drew to the side of the + house, and had their duel out in the half-shadows, no one knowing, till + the shots rang on the night, and John Marcey, without a cry, sprang into + the air and fell face upwards, shot through the heart. + </p> + <p> + They tried to take the child away, but she would not go; and when they + carried Marcey on the shutter she followed close by, resisting her + father’s wishes and commands. And just before they made a prisoner of + Laforce, she said to him very quietly—so like a woman she was—“I + will give you back the basket, and the riding-whip, and the other things, + and I will never forgive you—never—no, never!” + </p> + <p> + Stroke Laforce had given himself up, had himself ridden to Winnipeg, a + thousand miles, and told his story. Then the sergeant’s stripes had been + stripped from his arm, he had been tried, and on his own statement had got + twelve years’ imprisonment. Ten years had passed since then—since + Marcey was put away in his grave, since Pierre left Fort Ste. Anne, and he + had not seen it or Lucille in all that time. But he knew that Gyng was + dead, and that his widow and her child had gone south or east somewhere; + of Laforce after his sentence he had never heard. + </p> + <p> + He stood looking at the house from the shade of the solitary pine-tree + near it, recalling every incident of that fatal night. He had the gift of + looking at a thing in its true proportions, perhaps because he had little + emotion and a strong brain, or perhaps because early in life his emotions + were rationalised. Presently he heard the voice again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “He waits at the threshold stone— + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The eagle broods at his side, + (Why should the blind be drawn?) + Long has he watched, and far has he called + The lonely sentinel of the North: + “Who goes there?” to the wandering soul: + Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, + (Why should the blind be drawn?)” + </pre> + <p> + Now he recognised the voice. Its golden timbre brought back a young girl’s + golden face and golden hair. It was summer, and the window with the broken + shutter was open. He was about to go to it, when a door of the house + opened, and a girl appeared. She was tall, with rich, yellow hair falling + loosely about her head; she had a strong, finely cut chin and a broad + brow, under which a pair of deep blue eyes shone-violet blue, rare and + fine. She stood looking down at the Fort for a few moments, unaware of + Pierre’s presence. But presently she saw him leaning against the tree, and + she started as from a spirit. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur!” she said—“Pierre!” and stepped forward again from the + doorway. + </p> + <p> + He came to her, and “Ah, p’tite Lucille,” he said, “you remember me, eh?—and + yet so many years ago!” + </p> + <p> + “But you remember me,” she answered, “and I have changed so much!” + </p> + <p> + “It is the man who should remember, the woman may forget if she will.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre did not mean to pay a compliment; he was merely thinking. + </p> + <p> + She made a little gesture of deprecation. “I was a child,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Pierre lifted a shoulder slightly. “What matter? It is sex that I mean. + What difference to me—five, or forty, or ninety? It is all sex. It + is only lovers, the hunters of fire-flies, that think of age—mais + oui!” + </p> + <p> + She had a way of looking at you before she spoke, as though she were + trying to find what she actually thought. She was one after Pierre’s own + heart, and he knew it; but just here he wondered where all that ancient + coquetry was gone, for there were no traces of it left; she was steady of + eye, reposeful, rich in form and face, and yet not occupied with herself. + He had only seen her for a minute or so, yet he was sure that what she was + just now she was always, or nearly so, for the habits of a life leave + their mark, and show through every phase of emotion and incident whether + it be light or grave. + </p> + <p> + “I think I understand you,” she said. “I think I always did a little, from + the time you stayed with Grah the idiot at Fort o’ God, and fought the + Indians when the others left. Only—men said bad things of you, and + my father did not like you, and you spoke so little to me ever. Yet I mind + how you used to sit and watch me, and I also mind when you rode the man + down who stole my pony, and brought them both back.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre smiled—he was pleased at this. “Ah, my young friend,” he + said, “I do not forget that either, for though he had shaved my ear with a + bullet, you would not have him handed over to the Riders of the Plains—such + a tender heart!” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes suddenly grew wide. She was childlike in her amazement, indeed, + childlike in all ways, for she was very sincere. It was her great + advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth, she had not + suffered that sickness, social artifice. + </p> + <p> + “I never knew,” she said, “that he had shot at you—never! You did + not tell that.” + </p> + <p> + “There is a time for everything—the time for that was not till now.” + </p> + <p> + “What could I have done then?” + </p> + <p> + “You might have left it to me. I am not so pious that I can’t be merciful + to the sinner. But this man—this Brickney—was a vile scoundrel + always, and I wanted him locked up. I would have shot him myself, but I + was tired of doing the duty of the law. Yes, yes,” he added, as he saw her + smile a little. “It is so. I have love for justice, even I, Pretty Pierre. + Why not justice on myself? Ha! The law does not its duty. And maybe some + day I shall have to do its work on myself. Some are coaxed out of life, + some are kicked out, and some open the doors quietly for themselves, and + go a-hunting Outside.” + </p> + <p> + “They used to talk as if one ought to fear you,” she said, “but”—she + looked him straight in the eyes—“but maybe that’s because you’ve + never hid any badness.” + </p> + <p> + “It is no matter, anyhow,” he answered. “I live in the open, I walk in the + open road, and I stand by what I do to the open law and the gospel. It is + my whim—every man to his own saddle.” + </p> + <p> + “It is ten years,” she said abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “Ten years less five days,” he answered as sententiously. + </p> + <p> + “Come inside,” she said quietly, and turned to the door. + </p> + <p> + Without a word he turned also, but instead of going direct to the door + came and touched the broken shutter and the dark stain on one corner with + a delicate forefinger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her on + the doorstep, looking intently. + </p> + <p> + He spoke as if to himself: “It has not been touched since then—no. + It was hardly big enough for him, so his legs hung over. Ah, yes, ten + years—Abroad, John Marcey!” Then, as if still musing, he turned to + the girl: “He had no father or mother—no one, of course; so that it + wasn’t so bad after all. If you’ve lived with the tongue in the last hole + of the buckle as you’ve gone, what matter when you go! C’est egal—it + is all the same.” + </p> + <p> + Her face had become pale as he spoke, but no muscle stirred; only her eyes + filled with a deeper color, and her hand closed tightly on the door-jamb. + “Come in, Pierre,” she said, and entered. He followed her. “My mother is + at the Fort,” she added, “but she will be back soon.” + </p> + <p> + She placed two chairs not far from the open door. They sat, and Pierre + slowly rolled a cigarette and lighted it. + </p> + <p> + “How long have you lived here?” he asked presently. + </p> + <p> + “It is seven years since we came first,” she replied. “After that night + they said the place was haunted, and no one would live in it, but when my + father died my mother and I came for three years. Then we went east, and + again came back, and here we have been.” + </p> + <p> + “The shutter?” Pierre asked. + </p> + <p> + They needed few explanations—their minds were moving with the same + thought. + </p> + <p> + “I would not have it changed, and of course no one cared to touch it. So + it has hung there.” + </p> + <p> + “As I placed it ten years ago,” he said. + </p> + <p> + They both became silent for a time, and at last he said: “Marcey had no + one,—Sergeant Laforce a mother.” + </p> + <p> + “It killed his mother,” she whispered, looking into the white sunlight. + She was noting how it was flashed from the bark of the birch-trees near + the Fort. + </p> + <p> + “His mother died,” she added again, quietly. “It killed her—the gaol + for him!” + </p> + <p> + “An eye for an eye,” he responded. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think that evens John Marcey’s death?” she sighed. + </p> + <p> + “As far as Marcey’s concerned,” he answered. “Laforce has his own + reckoning besides.” + </p> + <p> + “It was not a murder,” she urged. + </p> + <p> + “It was a fair fight,” he replied firmly, “and Laforce shot straight.” He + was trying to think why she lived here, why the broken shutter still hung + there, why the matter had settled so deeply on her. He remembered the song + she was singing, the legend of the Scarlet Hunter, the fabled Savior of + the North. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol— + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, + (Why should the blind be drawn?)” + </pre> + <p> + He repeated the words, lingering on them. He loved to come at the truth of + things by allusive, far-off reflections, rather than by the sharp + questioning of the witness-box. He had imagination, refinement in such + things. A light dawned on him as he spoke the words—all became + clear. She sang of the Scarlet Hunter, but she meant someone else! That + was it— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol— + (Why should the door be shut?) + The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide, + (Why is the window barred?)” + </pre> + <p> + But why did she live here? To get used to a thought, to have it so near + her, that if the man—if Laforce himself came, she would have herself + schooled to endure the shadow and the misery of it all? Ah, that was it! + The little girl, who had seen her big lover killed, who had said she would + never forgive the other, who had sent him back the fretted-silver basket, + the riding-whip, and other things, had kept the criminal in her mind all + these years; had, out of her childish coquetry, grown into—what? As + a child she had been wise for her years—almost too wise. What had + happened? She had probably felt sorrow for Laforce at first, and + afterwards had shown active sympathy, and at last—no, he felt that + she had not quite forgiven him, that, whatever was, she had not hidden the + criminal in her heart. But why did she sing that song? Her heart was + pleading for him—for the criminal. Had she and her mother gone to + Winnipeg to be near Laforce, to comfort him? Was Laforce free now, and was + she unwilling? It was so strange that she should thus have carried on her + childhood into her womanhood. But he guessed her—she had + imagination. + </p> + <p> + “His mother died in my arms in Winnipeg,” she said abruptly at last. “I’m + glad I was some comfort to her. You see, it all came through me—I + was so young and spoiled and silly—John Marcey’s death, her death, + and his long years in prison. Even then I knew better than to set the one + against the other. Must a child not be responsible? I was—I am!” + </p> + <p> + “And so you punish yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “It was terrible for me—even as a child. I said that I could never + forgive, but when his mother died, blessing me, I did. Then there came + something else.” + </p> + <p> + “You saw him, there amie?” + </p> + <p> + “I saw him—so changed, so quiet, so much older—all grey at the + temples. At first I lived here that I might get used to the thought of the + thing—to learn to bear it; and afterwards that I might learn—” + She paused, looking in half-doubt at Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “It is safe; I am silent,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “That I might learn to bear—him,” she continued. + </p> + <p> + “Is he still—” Pierre paused. + </p> + <p> + She spoke up quickly. “Oh no, he has been free two years.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he now?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” She waited for a minute, then said again, “I don’t know. + When he was free, he came to me, but I—I could not. He thought, too, + that because he had been in gaol, that I wouldn’t—be his wife. He + didn’t think enough of himself, he didn’t urge anything. And I wasn’t + ready—no—no—no—how could I be! I didn’t care so + much about the gaol, but he had killed John Marcey. The gaol—what + was that to me! There was no real shame in it unless he had done a mean + thing. He had been wicked—not mean. Killing is awful, but not + shameful. Think—the difference—if he had been a thief!” + </p> + <p> + Pierre nodded. “Then some one should have killed him!” he said. “Well, + after?” + </p> + <p> + “After—after—ah, he went away for a year. Then he came back; + but no, I was always thinking of that night I walked behind John Marcey’s + body to the Fort. So he went away again, and we came here, and here we + have lived.” + </p> + <p> + “He has not come here?” + </p> + <p> + “No; once from the far north he sent me a letter by an Indian, saying that + he was going with a half-breed to search for a hunting party, an English + gentleman and two men who were lost. The name of one of the men was + Brickney.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre stopped short in a long whiffing of smoke. “Holy!” he said, “that + thief Brickney again. He would steal the broad road to hell if he could + carry it. He once stole the quarters from a dead man’s eyes. Mon Dieu! to + save Brickney’s life, the courage to do that—like sticking your face + in the mire and eating!—But, pshaw!—go on, p’tite Lucille.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no more. I never heard again.” + </p> + <p> + “How long was that ago?” + </p> + <p> + “Nine months or more.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing has been heard of any of them?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all. The Englishman belonged to the Hudson’s Bay Company, but + they have heard nothing down here at Fort Ste. Anne.” + </p> + <p> + “If he saves the Company’s man, that will make up the man he lost for + them, eh—you think that, eh?” Pierre’s eyes had a curious ironical + light. + </p> + <p> + “I do not care for the Company,” she said. “John Marcey’s life was his + own.” + </p> + <p> + “Good!” he added quickly, and his eyes admired her. “That is the thing. + Then, do not forget that Marcey took his life in his hands himself, that + he would have killed Laforce if Laforce hadn’t killed him.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, I know,” she said, “but I should have felt the same if John + Marcey had killed Stroke Laforce.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a pity to throw your life away,” he ventured. He said this for a + purpose. He did not think she was throwing it away. + </p> + <p> + She was watching a little knot of horsemen coming over a swell of the + prairie far off. She withdrew her eyes and fixed them on Pierre. “Do you + throw your life away if you do what is the only thing you are told to do?” + </p> + <p> + She placed her hand on her heart—that had been her one guide. + </p> + <p> + Pierre got to his feet, came over, and touched her on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You have the great secret,” he said quietly. “The thing may be all wrong + to others, but if it’s right to yourself—that’s it—mais oui! + If he comes,” he added “if he comes back, think of him as well as Marcey. + Marcey is sleeping—what does it matter? If he is awake, he has + better times, for he was a man to make another world sociable. Think of + Laforce, for he has his life to live, and he is a man to make this world + sociable. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ‘The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home— + (Why should the door be shut?)’” + </pre> + <p> + Her eyes had been following the group of horsemen on the plains. She again + fixed them on Pierre, and stood up. + </p> + <p> + “It is a beautiful legend—that,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “But?—but?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She would not answer him. “You will come again,” she said; “you will—help + me?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely, p’tite Lucille, surely, I will come. But to help—ah, that + would sound funny to the Missionary at the Fort and to others!” + </p> + <p> + “You understand life,” she said, “and I can speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s more to you to understand you than to be good, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I guess it’s more to any woman,” she answered. They both passed out of + the house. She turned towards the broken shutter. Then their eyes met. A + sad little smile hovered at her lips. + </p> + <p> + “What is the use?” she said, and her eyes fastened on the horsemen. + </p> + <p> + He knew now that she would never shudder again at the sight of it, or at + the remembrance of Marcey’s death. + </p> + <p> + “But he will come,” was the reply to her, and her smile almost settled and + stayed. + </p> + <p> + They parted, and as he went down the hill he saw far over, coming up, a + woman in black, who walked as if she carried a great weight. “Every shot + that kills ricochets,” he said to himself: + </p> + <p> + “His mother dead—her mother like that!” + </p> + <p> + He passed into the Fort, renewing acquaintances in the Company’s store, + and twenty minutes after he was one to greet the horsemen that Lucille had + seen coming over the hills. They were five, and one had to be helped from + his horse. It was Stroke Laforce, who had been found near dead at the + Metal River by a party of men exploring in the north. + </p> + <p> + He had rescued the Englishman and his party, but within a day of the + finding the Englishman died, leaving him his watch, a ring, and a cheque + on the H. B. C. at Winnipeg. He and the two survivors, one of whom was + Brickney, started south. One night Brickney robbed him and made to get + away, and on his seizing the thief he was wounded. Then the other man came + to his help and shot Brickney: after that weeks of wandering, and at last + rescue and Fort Ste. Anne. + </p> + <p> + A half-hour after this Pierre left Laforce on the crest of the hill above + the Fort, and did not turn to go down till he had seen the other pass + within the house with the broken shutter. And later he saw a little + bonfire on the hill. The next evening he came to the house again himself. + Lucille rose to meet him. + </p> + <p> + “‘Why should the door be shut?”’ he quoted smiling. + </p> + <p> + “The door is open,” she answered quickly and with a quiet joy. + </p> + <p> + He turned to the motion of her hand, and saw Laforce asleep on a couch. + </p> + <p> + Soon afterwards, as he passed from the house, he turned towards the + window. The broken shutter was gone. + </p> + <p> + He knew now the meaning of the bonfire the night before. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FINDING OF FINGALL + </h2> + <h3> + “Fingall! Fingall!—Oh, Fingall!” + </h3> + <p> + A grey mist was rising from the river, the sun was drinking it + delightedly, the swift blue water showed underneath it, and the top of + Whitefaced Mountain peaked the mist by a hand-length. The river brushed + the banks like rustling silk, and the only other sound, very sharp and + clear in the liquid monotone, was the crack of a woodpecker’s beak on a + hickory tree. + </p> + <p> + It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in Lonesome Valley. Before night the + deer would bellow reply to the hunters’ rifles, and the mountain-goat call + to its unknown gods; but now there was only the wild duck skimming the + river, and the high hilltop rising and fading into the mist, the ardent + sun, and again that strange cry— + </p> + <p> + “Fingall!—Oh, Fingall! Fingall!” + </p> + <p> + Two men, lounging at a fire on a ledge of the hills, raised their eyes to + the mountain-side beyond and above them, and one said presently: + </p> + <p> + “The second time. It’s a woman’s voice, Pierre.” Pierre nodded, and + abstractedly stirred the coals about with a twig. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is a pity—the poor Cynthie,” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “It is a woman, then. You know her, Pierre—her story?” + </p> + <p> + “Fingall! Fingall!—Oh, Fingall!” + </p> + <p> + Pierre raised his head towards the sound; then after a moment, said: + </p> + <p> + “I know Fingall.” + </p> + <p> + “And the woman? Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “And the girl. Fingall was all fire and heart, and devil-may-care. She—she + was not beautiful except in the eye, but that was like a flame of red and + blue. Her hair, too—then—would trip her up, if it hung loose. + That was all, except that she loved him too much. But women—et puis, + when a woman gets a man between her and the heaven above and the earth + beneath, and there comes the great hunger, what is the good! A man cannot + understand, but he can see, and he can fear. What is the good! To play + with life, that is not much; but to play with a soul is more than a + thousand lives. Look at Cynthie.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and Lawless waited patiently. Presently Pierre continued: + </p> + <p> + Fingall was gentil; he would take off his hat to a squaw. It made no + difference what others did; he didn’t think—it was like breathing to + him. How can you tell the way things happen? Cynthie’s father kept the + tavern at St. Gabriel’s Fork, over against the great saw-mill. Fingall was + foreman of a gang in the lumberyard. Cynthie had a brother—Fenn. + Fenn was as bad as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall knew it well, + though he hated the young skunk. The girl’s eyes were like two little + fire-flies when Fingall was about. + </p> + <p> + “He was a gentleman, though he had only half a name—Fingall—like + that. I think he did not expect to stay; he seemed to be waiting for + something—always when the mail come in he would be there; and + afterwards you wouldn’t see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he + made up his mind to think nothing of Cynthie, and to say nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Fingall! Fingall!—Oh, Fingall!” + </p> + <p> + The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded nearer. “She’s coming this way, + Pierre,” said Lawless. + </p> + <p> + “I hope not to see her. What is the good!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let us have the rest of the story.” + </p> + <p> + “Her brother Fenn was in Fingall’s gang. One day there was trouble. Fenn + called Fingall a liar. The gang stopped piling; the usual thing did not + come. Fingall told him to leave the yard, and they would settle some other + time. That night a wicked thing happened. We were sitting in the bar-room + when we heard two shots and then a fall. We ran into the other room; there + was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted himself on his elbow, pointed at + Fingall—and fell back. The father of the boy stood white and still a + few feet away. There was no pistol showing—none at all. + </p> + <p> + “The men closed in on Fingall. He did not stir—he seemed to be + thinking of something else. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look. The men + roared round him, but he waved them back for a moment, and looked first at + the father, then at the son. I could not understand at first. Someone + pulled a pistol out of Fingall’s pocket and showed it. At that moment + Cynthie came in. She gave a cry. By the holy! I do not want to hear a cry + like that often. She fell on her knees beside the boy, and caught his head + to her breast. Then with a wild look she asked who did it. They had just + taken Fingall out into the bar-room. They did not tell her his name, for + they knew that she loved him. + </p> + <p> + “‘Father,’ she said all at once, ‘have you killed the man that killed + Fenn?’ + </p> + <p> + “The old man shook his head. There was a sick colour in his face. + </p> + <p> + “‘Then I will kill him,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + “She laid her brother’s head down, and stood up. Someone put in her hand + the pistol, and told her it was the same that had killed Fenn. She took + it, and came with us. The old man stood still where he was; he was like + stone. I looked at him for a minute and thought; then I turned round and + went to the bar-room; and he followed. Just as I got inside the door, I + saw the girl start back, and her hand drop, for she saw that it was + Fingall; he was looking at her very strange. It was the rule to empty the + gun into a man who had been sentenced; and already Fingall had heard his, + ‘God-have-mercy!’ The girl was to do it. + </p> + <p> + “Fingall said to her in a muffled voice, ‘Fire—Cynthie!’ + </p> + <p> + “I guessed what she would do. In a kind of a dream she raised the pistol + up—up—up, till I could see it was just out of range of his + head, and she fired. One! two! three! four! five! Fingall never moved a + muscle; but the bullets spotted the wall at the side of his head. She + stopped after the five; but the arm was still held out, and her finger was + on the trigger; she seemed to be all dazed. Only six chambers were in the + gun, and of course one chamber was empty. Fenn had its bullet in his + lungs, as we thought. So someone beside Cynthie touched her arm, pushing + it down. But there was another shot, and this time, because of the push, + the bullet lodged in Fingall’s skull.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre paused now, and waved with his hand towards the mist which hung + high up like a canopy between the hills. + </p> + <p> + “But,” said Lawless, not heeding the scene, “what about that sixth + bullet?” + </p> + <p> + “Holy, it is plain! Fingall did not fire the shot. His revolver was full, + every chamber, when Cynthie first took it.” + </p> + <p> + “Who killed the lad?” + </p> + <p> + “Can you not guess? There had been words between the father and the boy: + both had fierce blood. The father, in a mad minute, fired; the boy wanted + revenge on Fingall, and, to save his father, laid it on the other. The old + man? Well, I do not know whether he was a coward, or stupid, or ashamed—he + let Fingall take it.” + </p> + <p> + “Fingall took it to spare the girl, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “For the girl. It wasn’t good for her to know her father killed his own + son.” + </p> + <p> + “What came after?” + </p> + <p> + “The worst. That night the girl’s father killed himself, and the two were + buried in the same grave. Cynthie—” + </p> + <p> + “Fingall! Fingall!—Oh, Fingall!” + </p> + <p> + “You hear? Yes, like that all the time as she sat on the floor, her hair + about her like a cloud, and the dead bodies in the next room. She thought + she had killed Fingall, and she knew now that he was innocent. The two + were buried. Then we told her that Fingall was not dead. She used to come + and sit outside the door, and listen to his breathing, and ask if he ever + spoke of her. What was the good of lying? If we said he did, she’d have + come in to him, and that would do no good, for he wasn’t right in his + mind. By and by we told her he was getting well, and then she didn’t come, + but stayed at home, just saying his name over to herself. Alors, things + take hold of a woman—it is strange! When Fingall was strong enough + to go out, I went with him the first time. He was all thin and handsome as + you can think, but he had no memory, and his eyes were like a child’s. She + saw him, and came out to meet him. What does a woman care for the world + when she loves a man? Well, he just looked at her as if he’d never seen + her before, and passed by without a sign, though afterwards a trouble came + in his face. Three days later he was gone, no one knew where. That is two + years ago. Ever since she has been looking for him.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she mad?” + </p> + <p> + “Mad? Holy Mother! it is not good to have one thing in the head all the + time! What do you think? So much all at once! And then—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Pierre! There she is!” said Lawless, pointing to a ledge of rock + not far away. + </p> + <p> + The girl stood looking out across the valley, a weird, rapt look in her + face, her hair falling loose, a staff like a shepherd’s crook in one hand, + the other hand over her eyes as she slowly looked from point to point of + the horizon. + </p> + <p> + The two watched her without speaking. Presently she saw them. She gazed at + them for a minute, then descended to them. Lawless and Pierre rose, + doffing their hats. She looked at both a moment, and her eyes settled on + Pierre. Presently she held out her hand to him. “I knew you—yesterday,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + Pierre returned the intensity of her gaze with one kind and strong. + </p> + <p> + “So—so, Cynthie,” he said; “sit down and eat.” + </p> + <p> + He dropped on a knee and drew a scone and some fish from the ashes. She + sat facing them, and, taking from a bag at her side some wild fruits, ate + slowly, saying nothing. Lawless noticed that her hair had become grey at + her temples, though she was but one-and-twenty years old. Her face, brown + as it was, shone with a white kind of light, which may, or may not, have + come from the crucible of her eyes, where the tragedy of her life was + fusing. Lawless could not bear to look long, for the fire that consumes a + body and sets free a soul is not for the sight of the quick. At last she + rose, her body steady, but her hands having that tremulous activity of her + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Will you not stay, Cynthie?” asked Lawless very kindly. + </p> + <p> + She came close to him, and, after searching his eyes, said with a smile + that almost hurt him, “When I have found him, I will bring him to your + camp-fire. Last night the Voice said that he waits for me where the mist + rises from the river at daybreak, close to the home of the White Swan. Do + you know where is the home of the White Swan? Before the frost comes and + the red wolf cries, I must find him. Winter is the time of sleep. + </p> + <p> + “I will give him honey and dried meat. I know where we shall live + together. You never saw such roses! Hush! I have a place where we can + hide.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly her gaze became fixed and dream-like, and she said slowly: “In + all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the hour of + death, and in the Day of Judgment, Good Lord, deliver us!” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, deliver us!” repeated Lawless in a low voice. Without looking + at them, she slowly turned away and passed up the hill-side, her eyes + scanning the valley as before. + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, deliver us!” again said Lawless. “Where did she get it?” + </p> + <p> + “From a book which Fingall left behind.” + </p> + <p> + They watched her till she rounded a cliff, and was gone; then they + shouldered their kits and passed up the river on the trail of the wapiti. + </p> + <p> + One month later, when a fine white surf of frost lay on the ground, and + the sky was darkened often by the flight of the wild geese southward, they + came upon a hut perched on a bluff, at the edge of a clump of pines. It + was morning, and Whitefaced Mountain shone clear and high, without a touch + of cloud or mist from its haunches to its crown. + </p> + <p> + They knocked at the hut door, and, in answer to a voice, entered. The + sunlight streamed in over a woman, lying upon a heap of dried flowers in a + corner. A man was kneeling beside her. They came near, and saw that the + woman was Cynthie. + </p> + <p> + “Fingall!” broke out Pierre, and caught the kneeling man by the shoulder. + At the sound of his voice the woman’s eyes opened. + </p> + <p> + “Fingall!—Oh, Fingall!” she said, and reached up a hand. + </p> + <p> + Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: “Cynthie! poor girl! Oh, my + poor Cynthie!” he said. In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, and his + voice, as hers, said indescribable things. + </p> + <p> + Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes closed; she slept. Fingall laid + her down with a sob in his throat; then he sat up and clutched Pierre’s + hand. + </p> + <p> + “In the East, where the doctors cured me, I heard all,” he said, pointing + to her, “and I came to find her. I was just in time; I found her + yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “She knew you?” whispered Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but this fever came on.” He turned and looked at her, and, kneeling, + smoothed away the hair from the quiet face. “Poor girl!” he said; “poor + girl!” + </p> + <p> + “She will get well?” asked Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “God grant it!” Fingall replied. “She is better—better.” + </p> + <p> + Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole away, leaving the man alone + with the woman he loved. + </p> + <p> + The two stood in silence, looking upon the river beneath. Presently a + voice crept through the stillness. “Fingall! Oh, Fingall!—Fingall!” + </p> + <p> + It was the voice of a woman returning from the dead. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE + </h2> + <p> + I + </p> + <p> + “Read on, Pierre,” the sick man said, doubling the corner of the wolf-skin + pillow so that it shaded his face from the candle. + </p> + <p> + Pierre smiled to himself, thinking of the unusual nature of his + occupation, raised an eyebrow as if to someone sitting at the other side + of the fire,—though the room was empty save for the two—and + went on reading: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Woe to the multitude of many people, which make a noise like the + noise of the seas; and to the rushing of nations, that make a + rushing like the rushing of mighty waters! + + “The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters: but God + shall rebuke them, and they shall flee far off, and shall be chased + as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling + thing before the whirlwind. + + “And behold at evening-tide trouble; and before the morning he is + not. This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them + that rob us.” + </pre> + <p> + The sick man put up his hand, motioning for silence, and Pierre, leaving + the Bible open, laid it at his side. Then he fell to studying the figure + on the couch. The body, though reduced by a sudden illness, had an + appearance of late youth, a firmness of mature manhood; but the hair was + grey, the beard was grizzled, and the face was furrowed and seamed as + though the man had lived a long, hard life. The body seemed thirty years + old, the head sixty; the man’s exact age was forty-five. His most singular + characteristic was a fine, almost spiritual intelligence, which showed in + the dewy brightness of the eye, in the lighted face, in the cadenced + definiteness of his speech. One would have said, knowing nothing of him, + that he was a hermit; but again, noting the firm, graceful outlines of his + body, that he was a soldier. Within the past twenty-four hours he had had + a fight for life with one of the terrible “colds” which, like an unstayed + plague, close up the courses of the body, and carry a man out of the + hurly-burly, without pause to say how much or how little he cares to go. + </p> + <p> + Pierre, whose rude skill in medicine was got of hard experiences here and + there, had helped him back into the world again, and was himself now a + little astonished at acting as Scripture reader to a Protestant invalid. + Still, the Bible was like his childhood itself, always with him in memory, + and Old Testament history was as wine to his blood. The lofty tales sang + in his veins: of primitive man, adventure, mysterious and exalted romance. + For nearly an hour, with absorbing interest, he had read aloud from these + ancient chronicles to Fawdor, who held this Post of the Hudson’s Bay + Company in the outer wilderness. + </p> + <p> + Pierre had arrived at the Post three days before, to find a half-breed + trapper and an Indian helpless before the sickness which was hurrying to + close on John Fawdor’s heart and clamp it in the vice of death. He had + come just in time. He was now ready to learn, by what ways the future + should show, why this man, of such unusual force and power, should have + lived at a desolate post in Labrador for twenty-five years. + </p> + <p> + “‘This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them that rob + us—‘” Fawdor repeated the words slowly, and then said: “It is good + to be out of the restless world. Do you know the secret of life, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre’s fingers unconsciously dropped on the Bible at his side, drumming + the leaves. His eyes wandered over Fawdor’s face, and presently he + answered, “To keep your own commandments.” + </p> + <p> + “The ten?” asked the sick man, pointing to the Bible. Pierre’s fingers + closed the book. “Not the ten, for they do not fit all; but one by one to + make your own, and never to break—comme ca!” + </p> + <p> + “The answer is well,” returned Fawdor; “but what is the greatest + commandment that a man can make for himself?” + </p> + <p> + “Who can tell? What is the good of saying, ‘Thou shalt keep holy the + Sabbath day,’ when a man lives where he does not know the days? What is + the good of saying, ‘Thou shalt not steal,’ when a man has no heart to + rob, and there is nothing to steal? But a man should have a heart, an eye + for justice. It is good for him to make his commandments against that + wherein he is a fool or has a devil. Justice,—that is the thing.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour’?” asked Fawdor + softly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, like that. But a man must put it in his own words, and keep the law + which he makes. Then life does not give a bad taste in the mouth.” + </p> + <p> + “What commandments have you made for yourself, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + The slumbering fire in Pierre’s face leaped up. He felt for an instant as + his father, a chevalier of France, might have felt if a peasant had + presumed to finger the orders upon his breast. It touched his native + pride, so little shown in anything else. But he knew the spirit behind the + question, and the meaning justified the man. “Thou shalt think with the + minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman,” he said, and paused. + </p> + <p> + “Justice and mercy,” murmured the voice from the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket.” Again Pierre paused. + </p> + <p> + “And a man shall have no cause to fear his friend,” said the voice again. + </p> + <p> + The pause was longer this time, and Pierre’s cold, handsome face took on a + kind of softness before he said, “Remember the sorrow of thine own wife.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a good commandment,” said the sick man, “to make all women safe + whether they be true—or foolish.” + </p> + <p> + “The strong should be ashamed to prey upon the weak. Pshaw! such a sport + ends in nothing. Man only is man’s game.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Pierre added: “When you thought you were going to die, you gave + me some papers and letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. Shall I + give them back? Will you take them yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know his story. He reached out a hand, + saying, “I will take them myself. You have not read them?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I was not to read them till you died—bien?” He handed the + packet over. + </p> + <p> + “I will tell you the story,” Fawdor said, turning over on his side, so + that his eyes rested full on Pierre. + </p> + <p> + He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the finest and yet wildest + breed, which had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, opened its + red eyes at the two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and sniffed + at the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing restlessly around the + room. Every little while it would stop, sniff the air, and go on again. + Once or twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick man, it paused, + and at last it suddenly rose, rested two feet on the rude headboard of the + couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid’s head. There was something + rarely savage and yet beautifully soft in the dog’s face, scarred as it + was by the whips of earlier owners. The sick man’s hand went up and + caressed the wolfish head. “Good dog, good Akim!” he said softly in + French. “Thou dost know when a storm is on the way; thou dost know, too, + when there is a storm in my heart.” + </p> + <p> + Even as he spoke a wind came crying round the house, and the parchment + windows gave forth a soft booming sound. Outside, Nature was trembling + lightly in all her nerves; belated herons, disturbed from the freshly + frozen pool, swept away on tardy wings into the night and to the south; a + herd of wolves, trooping by the hut, passed from a short, easy trot to a + low, long gallop, devouring, yet fearful. It appeared as though the dumb + earth were trying to speak, and the mighty effort gave it pain, from which + came awe and terror to living things. + </p> + <p> + So, inside the house, also, Pierre almost shrank from the unknown sorrow + of this man beside him, who was about to disclose the story of his life. + The solitary places do not make men glib of tongue; rather, spare of + words. They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly, being + given the woe of imagination, bring forth inner history as a mother gasps + life into the world. + </p> + <p> + “I was only a boy of twenty-one,” Fawdor said from the pillow, as he + watched the dog noiselessly travelling from corner to corner, “and I had + been with the Company three years. They had said that I could rise fast; I + had done so. I was ambitious; yet I find solace in thinking that I saw + only one way to it,—by patience, industry, and much thinking. I read + a great deal, and cared for what I read; but I observed also, that in + dealing with men I might serve myself and the Company wisely. + </p> + <p> + “One day the governor of the Company came from England, and with him a + sweet lady, his young niece, and her brother. They arranged for a tour to + the Great Lakes, and I was chosen to go with them in command of the + boatmen. It appeared as if a great chance had come to me, and so said the + factor at Lachine on the morning we set forth. The girl was as winsome as + you can think; not of such wonderful beauty, but with a face that would be + finer old than young; and a dainty trick of humour had she as well. The + governor was a testy man; he could not bear to be crossed in a matter; + yet, in spite of all, I did not think he had a wilful hardness. It was a + long journey, and we were set to our wits to make it always interesting; + but we did it somehow, for there were fishing and shooting, and adventure + of one sort and another, and the lighter things, such as singing and the + telling of tales, as the boatmen rowed the long river. + </p> + <p> + “We talked of many things as we travelled, and I was glad to listen to the + governor, for he had seen and read much. It was clear he liked to have us + hang upon his tales and his grand speeches, which seemed a little large in + the mouth; and his nephew, who had a mind for raillery, was now and again + guilty of some witty impertinence; but this was hard to bring home to him, + for he could assume a fine childlike look when he pleased, confusing to + his accusers. Towards the last he grew bolder, and said many a biting + thing to both the governor and myself, which more than once turned his + sister’s face pale with apprehension, for she had a nice sense of + kindness. Whenever the talk was at all general, it was his delight to turn + one against the other. Though I was wary, and the girl understood his + game, at last he had his way. + </p> + <p> + “I knew Shakespeare and the Bible very well, and, like most bookish young + men, phrase and motto were much on my tongue, though not always given + forth. One evening, as we drew to the camp-fire, a deer broke from the + woods and ran straight through the little circle we were making, and + disappeared in the bushes by the riverside. Someone ran for a rifle; but + the governor forbade, adding, with an air, a phrase with philosophical + point. I, proud of the chance to show I was not a mere backwoodsman at + such a sport, capped his aphorism with a line from Shakespeare’s + Cymbeline. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tut, tut!’ said the governor smartly; ‘you haven’t it well, Mr. Fawdor; + it goes this way,’ and he went on to set me right. His nephew at that + stepped in, and, with a little disdainful laugh at me, made some galling + gibe at my ‘distinguished learning.’ I might have known better than to let + it pique me, but I spoke up again, though respectfully enough, that I was + not wrong. It appeared to me all at once as if some principle were at + stake, as if I were the champion of our Shakespeare; so will vanity delude + us. + </p> + <p> + “The governor—I can see it as if it were yesterday—seemed to + go like ice, for he loved to be thought infallible in all such things as + well as in great business affairs, and his nephew was there to give an + edge to the matter. He said, curtly, that I would probably come on better + in the world if I were more exact and less cock-a-hoop with myself. That + stung me, for not only was the young lady looking on with a sort of + superior pity, as I thought, but her brother was murmuring to her under + his breath with a provoking smile. I saw no reason why I should be treated + like a schoolboy. As far as my knowledge went it was as good as another + man’s, were he young or old, so I came in quickly with my reply. I said + that his excellency should find me more cock-a-hoop with Shakespeare than + with myself. ‘Well, well,’ he answered, with a severe look, ‘our Company + has need of great men for hard tasks.’ To this I made no answer, for I got + a warning look from the young lady,—a look which had a sort of + reproach and command too. She knew the twists and turns of her uncle’s + temper, and how he was imperious and jealous in little things. The matter + dropped for the time; but as the governor was going to his tent for the + night, the young lady said to me hurriedly, ‘My uncle is a man of great + reading—and power, Mr. Fawdor. I would set it right with him, if I + were you.’ For the moment I was ashamed. You cannot guess how fine an eye + she had, and how her voice stirred one! She said no more, but stepped + inside her tent; and then I heard the brother say over my shoulder, ‘Oh, + why should the spirit of mortal be proud!’ Afterwards, with a little laugh + and a backward wave of the hand, as one might toss a greeting to a beggar, + he was gone also, and I was left alone.” + </p> + <p> + Fawdor paused in his narrative. The dog had lain down by the fire again, + but its red eyes were blinking at the door, and now and again it growled + softly, and the long hair at its mouth seemed to shiver with feeling. + Suddenly through the night there rang a loud, barking cry. The dog’s mouth + opened and closed in a noiseless snarl, showing its keen, long teeth, and + a ridge of hair bristled on its back. But the two men made no sign or + motion. The cry of wild cats was no new thing to them. + </p> + <p> + Presently the other continued: “I sat by the fire and heard beasts howl + like that, I listened to the river churning over the rapids below, and I + felt all at once a loneliness that turned me sick. There were three people + in a tent near me; I could even hear the governor’s breathing; but I + appeared to have no part in the life of any human being, as if I were a + kind of outlaw of God and man. I was poor; I had no friends; I was at the + mercy of this great Company; if I died, there was not a human being who, + so far as I knew, would shed a tear. Well, you see I was only a boy, and I + suppose it was the spirit of youth hungering for the huge, active world + and the companionship of ambitious men. There is no one so lonely as the + young dreamer on the brink of life. I was lying by the fire. It was not a + cold night, and I fell asleep at last without covering. I did not wake + till morning, and then it was to find the governor’s nephew building up + the fire again. ‘Those who are born great,’ said he, ‘are bound to rise.’ + But perhaps he saw that I had had a bad night, and felt that he had gone + far enough, for he presently said, in a tone more to my liking, ‘Take my + advice, Mr. Fawdor; make it right with my uncle. It isn’t such fast rising + in the Company that you can afford to quarrel with its governor. I’d go on + the other tack: don’t be too honest.’ I thanked him, and no more was said; + but I liked him better, for I saw that he was one of those who take + pleasure in dropping nettles more to see the weakness of human nature than + from malice. + </p> + <p> + “But my good fortune had got a twist, and it was not to be straightened + that day; and because it was not straightened then it was not to be at + all; for at five o’clock we came to the Post at Lachine, and here the + governor and the others were to stop. During all the day I had waited for + my chance to say a word of apology to his excellency, but it was no use; + nothing seemed to help me, for he was busy with his papers and notes, and + I also had to finish up my reports. The hours went by, and I saw my + chances drift past. I knew that the governor held the thing against me, + and not the less because he saw me more than once that day in speech with + his niece. For she appeared anxious to cheer me, and indeed I think we + might have become excellent friends had our ways run together. She could + have bestowed her friendship on me without shame to herself, for I had + come of an old family in Scotland, the Sheplaws of Canfire, which she + knew, as did the governor also, was a more ancient family than their own. + Yet her kindness that day worked me no good, and I went far to make it + worse, since, under the spell of her gentleness, I looked at her far from + distantly, and at the last, as she was getting from the boat, returned the + pressure of her hand with much interest. I suppose something of the pride + of that moment leaped up in my eye, for I saw the governor’s face harden + more and more, and the brother shrugged an ironical shoulder. I was too + young to see or know that the chief thing in the girl’s mind was regret + that I had so hurt my chances; for she knew, as I saw only too well + afterwards, that I might have been rewarded with a leaping promotion in + honour of the success of the journey. But though the boatmen got a gift of + money and tobacco and spirits, nothing came to me save the formal thanks + of the governor, as he bowed me from his presence. + </p> + <p> + “The nephew came with his sister to bid me farewell. There was little said + between her and me, and it was a long, long time before she knew the end + of that day’s business. But the brother said, ‘You’ve let the chance go + by, Mr. Fawdor. Better luck next time, eh? And,’ he went on, ‘I’d give a + hundred editions the lie, but I’d read the text according to my chief + officer. The words of a king are always wise while his head is on,’ he + declared further, and he drew from his scarf a pin of pearls and handed it + to me. ‘Will you wear that for me, Mr. Fawdor?’ he asked; and I, who had + thought him but a stripling with a saucy pride, grasped his hand and said + a God-keep-you. It does me good now to think I said it. I did not see him + or his sister again. + </p> + <p> + “The next day was Sunday. About two o’clock I was sent for by the + governor. When I got to the Post and was admitted to him, I saw that my + misadventure was not over. ‘Mr. Fawdor,’ said he coldly, spreading out a + map on the table before him, ‘you will start at once for Fort Ungava, at + Ungava Bay, in Labrador.’ I felt my heart stand still for a moment, and + then surge up and down, like a piston-rod under a sudden rush of steam. + ‘You will proceed now,’ he went on, in his hard voice, ‘as far as the + village of Pont Croix. There you will find three Indians awaiting you. You + will go on with them as far as Point St. Saviour and camp for the night, + for if the Indians remain in the village they may get drunk. The next + morning, at sunrise, you will move on. The Indians know the trail across + Labrador to Fort Ungava. When you reach there, you will take command of + the Post and remain till further orders. Your clothes are already at the + village. I have had them packed, and you will find there also what is + necessary for the journey. The factor at Ungava was there ten years; he + has gone—to heaven.’ + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell what it was held my tongue silent, that made me only bow my + head in assent, and press my lips together. I knew I was pale as death, + for as I turned to leave the room I caught sight of my face in a little + mirror tacked on the door, and I hardly recognised myself. + </p> + <p> + “‘Good-day, Mr. Fawdor,’ said the governor, handing me the map. ‘There is + some brandy in your stores; be careful that none of your Indians get it. + If they try to desert, you know what to do.’ With a gesture of dismissal + he turned, and began to speak with the chief trader. + </p> + <p> + “For me, I went from that room like a man condemned to die. Fort Ungava in + Labrador,—a thousand miles away, over a barren, savage country, and + in winter too; for it would be winter there immediately! It was an exile + to Siberia, and far worse than Siberia; for there are many there to share + the fellowship of misery, and I was likely to be the only white man at + Fort Ungava. As I passed from the door of the Post the words of + Shakespeare which had brought all this about sang in my ears.” He ceased + speaking, and sank back wearily among the skins of his couch. Out of the + enveloping silence Pierre’s voice came softly: + </p> + <p> + “Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one + woman.” + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + “The journey to the village of Pont Croix was that of a man walking over + graves. Every step sent a pang to my heart,—a boy of twenty-one, + grown old in a moment. It was not that I had gone a little lame from a + hurt got on the expedition with the governor, but my whole life seemed + suddenly lamed. Why did I go? Ah, you do not know how discipline gets into + a man’s bones, the pride, the indignant pride of obedience! At that hour I + swore that I should myself be the governor of that Company one day,—the + boast of loud-hearted youth. I had angry visions, I dreamed absurd dreams, + but I did not think of disobeying. It was an unheard-of journey at such a + time, but I swore that I would do it, that it should go into the records + of the Company. + </p> + <p> + “I reached the village, found the Indians, and at once moved on to the + settlement where we were to stay that night. Then my knee began to pain + me. I feared inflammation; so in the dead of night I walked back to the + village, roused a trader of the Company, got some liniment and other + trifles, and arrived again at St. Saviour’s before dawn. My few clothes + and necessaries came in the course of the morning, and by noon we were + fairly started on the path to exile. + </p> + <p> + “I remember that we came to a lofty point on the St. Lawrence just before + we plunged into the woods, to see the great stream no more. I stood and + looked back up the river towards the point where Lachine lay. All that + went to make the life of a Company’s man possible was there; and there, + too, were those with whom I had tented and travelled for three long + months,—eaten with them, cared for them, used for them all the + woodcraft that I knew. I could not think that it would be a young man’s + lifetime before I set eyes on that scene again. Never from that day to + this have I seen the broad, sweet river where I spent the three happiest + years of my life. I can see now the tall shining heights of Quebec, the + pretty wooded Island of Orleans, the winding channel, so deep, so strong. + The sun was three-fourths of its way down in the west, and already the sky + was taking on the deep red and purple of autumn. Somehow, the thing that + struck me most in the scene was a bunch of pines, solemn and quiet, their + tops burnished by the afternoon light. Tears would have been easy then. + But my pride drove them back from my eyes to my angry heart. Besides, + there were my Indians waiting, and the long journey lay before us. Then, + perhaps because there was none nearer to make farewell to, or I know not + why, I waved my hand towards the distant village of Lachine, and, with the + sweet maid in my mind who had so gently parted from me yesterday, I cried, + ‘Good-bye, and God bless you.’” + </p> + <p> + He paused. Pierre handed him a wooden cup, from which he drank, and then + continued: + </p> + <p> + “The journey went forward. You have seen the country. You know what it is: + those bare ice-plains and rocky unfenced fields stretching to all points, + the heaving wastes of treeless country, the harsh frozen lakes. God knows + what insupportable horror would have settled on me in that pilgrimage had + it not been for occasional glimpses of a gentler life—for the deer + and caribou which crossed our path. Upon my soul, I was so full of + gratitude and love at the sight that I could have thrown my arms round + their necks and kissed them. I could not raise a gun at them. My Indians + did that, and so inconstant is the human heart that I ate heartily of the + meat. My Indians were almost less companionable to me than any animal + would have been. Try as I would, I could not bring myself to like them, + and I feared only too truly that they did not like me. Indeed, I soon saw + that they meant to desert me,—kill me, perhaps, if they could, + although I trusted in the wholesome and restraining fear which the Indian + has of the great Company. I was not sure that they were guiding me aright, + and I had to threaten death in case they tried to mislead me or desert me. + My knee at times was painful, and cold, hunger, and incessant watchfulness + wore on me vastly. Yet I did not yield to my miseries, for there entered + into me then not only the spirit of endurance, but something of that + sacred pride in suffering which was the merit of my Covenanting + forefathers. + </p> + <p> + “We were four months on that bitter travel, and I do not know how it could + have been made at all, had it not been for the deer that I had heart to + eat and none to kill. The days got shorter and shorter, and we were + sometimes eighteen hours in absolute darkness. Thus you can imagine how + slowly we went. Thank God, we could sleep, hid away in our fur bags, more + often without a fire than with one,—mere mummies stretched out on a + vast coverlet of white, with the peering, unfriendly sky above us; though + it must be said that through all those many, many weeks no cloud perched + in the zenith. When there was light there was sun, and the courage of it + entered into our bones, helping to save us. You may think I have been made + feeble-minded by my sufferings, but I tell you plainly that, in the + closing days of our journey, I used to see a tall figure walking beside + me, who, whenever I would have spoken to him, laid a warning finger on his + lips; but when I would have fallen, he spoke to me, always in the same + words. You have heard of him, the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills. It + was he, the Sentinel of the North, the Lover of the Lost. So deep did his + words go into my heart that they have remained with me to this hour.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw him once in the White Valley,” Pierre said in a low voice. “What + was it he said to you?” + </p> + <p> + The other drew a long breath, and a smile rested on his lips. Then, + slowly, as though liking to linger over them, he repeated the words of the + Scarlet Hunter: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘O son of man, behold! + If thou shouldest stumble on the nameless trail, + The trail that no man rides, + Lift up thy heart, + Behold, O son of man, thou hast a helper near! + + “‘O son of man, take heed! + If thou shouldst fall upon the vacant plain, + The plain that no man loves, + Reach out thy hand, + Take heed, O son of man, strength shall be given thee! + + “‘O son of man, rejoice! + If thou art blinded even at the door, + The door of the Safe Tent, + Sing in thy heart, + Rejoice, O son of man, thy pilot leads thee home?’ +</pre> + <p> + “I never seemed to be alone after that—call it what you will, fancy + or delirium. My head was so light that it appeared to spin like a star, + and my feet were so heavy that I dragged the whole earth after me. My + Indians seldom spoke. I never let them drop behind me, for I did not trust + their treacherous natures. But in the end, as it would seem, they also had + but one thought, and that to reach Fort Ungava; for there was no food + left, none at all. We saw no tribes of Indians and no Esquimaux, for we + had not passed in their line of travel or settlement. + </p> + <p> + “At last I used to dream that birds were singing near me,—a soft, + delicate whirlwind of sound; and then bells all like muffled silver rang + through the aching, sweet air. Bits of prayer and poetry I learned when a + boy flashed through my mind; equations in algebra; the tingling scream of + a great buzz-saw; the breath of a racer as he nears the post under the + crying whip; my own voice dropping loud profanity, heard as a lad from a + blind ferryman; the boom! boom! of a mass of logs as they struck a house + on a flooding river and carried it away.... + </p> + <p> + “One day we reached the end. It was near evening, and we came to the top + of a wooded knoll. My eyes were dancing in my head with fatigue and + weakness, but I could see below us, on the edge of the great bay, a large + hut, Esquimau lodges and Indian tepees near it. It was the Fort, my + cheerless prison-house.” + </p> + <p> + He paused. The dog had been watching him with its flaming eyes; now it + gave a low growl, as though it understood, and pitied. In the interval of + silence the storm without broke. The trees began to quake and cry, the + light snow to beat upon the parchment windows, and the chimney to splutter + and moan. Presently, out on the bay they could hear the young ice break + and come scraping up the shore. Fawdor listened a while, and then went on, + waving his hand to the door as he began: “Think! this, and like that + always: the ungodly strife of nature, and my sick, disconsolate life.” + </p> + <p> + “Ever since?” asked Pierre. “All the time.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you not go back?” + </p> + <p> + “I was to wait for orders, and they never came.” + </p> + <p> + “You were a free man, not a slave.” + </p> + <p> + “The human heart has pride. At first, as when I left the governor at + Lachine, I said, ‘I will never speak, I will never ask nor bend the knee. + He has the power to oppress; I can obey without whining, as fine a man as + he.’” + </p> + <p> + “Did you not hate?” + </p> + <p> + “At first, as only a banished man can hate. I knew that if all had gone + well I should be a man high up in the Company, and here I was, living like + a dog in the porch of the world, sometimes without other food for months + than frozen fish; and for two years I was in a place where we had no fire,—lived + in a snow-house, with only blubber to eat. And so year after year, no + word!” + </p> + <p> + “The mail came once every year from the world?” “Yes, once a year the door + of the outer life was opened. A ship came into the bay, and by that ship I + sent out my reports. But no word came from the governor, and no request + went from me. Once the captain of that ship took me by the shoulders, and + said, ‘Fawdor, man, this will drive you mad. Come away to England,—leave + your half-breed in charge,—and ask the governor for a big + promotion.’ He did not understand. Of course I said I could not go. Then + he turned on me, he was a good man,—and said, ‘This will either make + you madman or saint, Fawdor.’ He drew a Bible from his pocket and handed + it to me. ‘I’ve used it twenty years,’ he said, ‘in evil and out of evil, + and I’ve spiked it here and there; it’s a chart for heavy seas, and may + you find it so, my lad.’ + </p> + <p> + “I said little then; but when I saw the sails of his ship round a cape and + vanish, all my pride and strength were broken up, and I came in a heap to + the ground, weeping like a child. But the change did not come all at once. + There were two things that kept me hard.” + </p> + <p> + “The girl?” + </p> + <p> + “The girl, and another. But of the young lady after. I had a half-breed + whose life I had saved. I was kind to him always; gave him as good to eat + and drink as I had myself; divided my tobacco with him; loved him as only + an exile can love a comrade. He conspired with the Indians to seize the + Fort and stores, and kill me if I resisted. I found it out.” + </p> + <p> + “Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket,” said Pierre. “What did + you do with him?” + </p> + <p> + “The fault was not his so much as of his race and his miserable past. I + had loved him. I sent him away; and he never came back.” + </p> + <p> + “Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one + woman.” + </p> + <p> + “For the girl. There was the thing that clamped my heart. Never a message + from her or her brother. Surely they knew, and yet never, thought I, a + good word for me to the governor. They had forgotten the faith of food and + blanket. And she—she must have seen that I could have worshipped + her, had we been in the same way of life. Before the better days came to + me I was hard against her, hard and rough at heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Remember the sorrow of thine own wife.” Pierre’s voice was gentle. + </p> + <p> + “Truly, to think hardly of no woman should be always in a man’s heart. But + I have known only one woman of my race in twenty-five years!” + </p> + <p> + “And as time went on?” + </p> + <p> + “As time went on, and no word came, I ceased to look for it. But I + followed that chart spiked with the captain’s pencil, as he had done it in + season and out of season, and by and by I ceased to look for any word. I + even became reconciled to my life. The ambitious and aching cares of the + world dropped from me, and I stood above all—alone in my suffering, + yet not yielding. Loneliness is a terrible thing. Under it a man—” + </p> + <p> + “Goes mad or becomes a saint—a saint!” Pierre’s voice became + reverent. + </p> + <p> + Fawdor shook his head, smiling gently. “Ah no, no. But I began to + understand the world, and I loved the north, the beautiful hard north.” + </p> + <p> + “But there is more?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the end of it all. Three days before you came I got a packet of + letters, not by the usual yearly mail. One announced that the governor was + dead. Another—” + </p> + <p> + “Another?” urged Pierre—“was from Her. She said that her brother, on + the day she wrote, had by chance come across my name in the Company’s + records, and found that I had been here a quarter of a century. It was the + letter of a good woman. She said she thought the governor had forgotten + that he had sent me here—as now I hope he had, for that would be one + thing less for him to think of, when he set out on the journey where the + only weight man carries is the packload of his sins. She also said that + she had written to me twice after we parted at Lachine, but had never + heard a word, and three years afterwards she had gone to India. The + letters were lost, I suppose, on the way to me, somehow—who can + tell? Then came another thing, so strange, that it seemed like the + laughter of the angels at us. These were her words: ‘And, dear Mr. Fawdor, + you were both wrong in that quotation, as you no doubt discovered long + ago.’ Then she gave me the sentence as it is in Cymbeline. She was right, + quite right. We were both wrong. Never till her letter came had I looked + to see. How vain, how uncertain, and fallible, is man!” + </p> + <p> + Pierre dropped his cigarette, and stared at Fawdor. “The knowledge of + books is foolery,” he said slowly. “Man is the only book of life. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “There was another letter, from the brother, who was now high up in the + Company, asking me to come to England, and saying that they wished to + promote me far, and that he and his sister, with their families, would be + glad to see me.” + </p> + <p> + “She was married then?” + </p> + <p> + The rashness of the suggestion made Fawdor wave his hand impatiently. He + would not reply to it. “I was struck down with all the news,” he said. “I + wandered like a child out into a mad storm. Illness came; then you, who + have nursed me back to life.... And now I have told all.” + </p> + <p> + “Not all, bien sur. What will you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I am out of the world; why tempt it all again? See how those twenty-five + years were twisted by a boy’s vanity and a man’s tyranny!” + </p> + <p> + “But what will you do?” persisted Pierre. “You should see the faces of + women and children again. No man can live without that sight, even as a + saint.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Fawdor’s face was shot over with a storm of feeling. He lay very + still, his thoughts busy with a new world which had been disclosed to him. + “Youth hungers for the vanities,” he said, “and the middle-aged for home.” + He took Pierre’s hand. “I will go,” he added. “A door will open somewhere + for me.” + </p> + <p> + Then he turned his face to the wall. The storm had ceased, the wild dog + huddled quietly on the hearth, and for hours the only sound was the + crackling of the logs as Pierre stirred the fire. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LITTLE BABICHE + </h2> + <p> + “No, no, m’sieu’ the governor, they did not tell you right. I was with + him, and I have known Little Babiche fifteen years—as long as I’ve + known you.... It was against the time when down in your world there they + have feastings, and in the churches the grand songs and many candles on + the altars. Yes, Noel, that is the word—the day of the Great Birth. + You shall hear how strange it all was—the thing, the time, the end + of it.” + </p> + <p> + The governor of the great Company settled back in a chair, his powerful + face seamed by years, his hair grey and thick still, his keen, steady eyes + burning under shaggy brows. He had himself spent long solitary years in + the wild fastnesses of the north. He fastened his dark eyes on Pierre, and + said: “Monsieur Pierre, I shall be glad to hear. It was at the time of + Noel—yes?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre began: “You have seen it beautiful and cold in the north, but never + so cold and beautiful as it was last year. The world was white with sun + and ice, the frost never melting, the sun never warming—just a + glitter, so lovely, so deadly. If only you could keep the heart warm, you + were not afraid. But if once—just for a moment—the blood ran + out from the heart and did not come in again, the frost clamped the doors + shut, and there was an end of all. Ah, m’sieu’, when the north clinches a + man’s heart in anger there is no pain like it—for a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes; and Little Babiche?” + </p> + <p> + “For ten years he carried the mails along the route of Fort St. Mary, Fort + O’Glory, Fort St. Saviour, and Fort Perseverance within the circle-just + one mail once a year, but that was enough. There he was with his Esquimaux + dogs on the trail, going and coming, with a laugh and a word for anyone + that crossed his track. ‘Good-day, Babiche’ ‘Good-day, m’sieu’.’ ‘How do + you, Babiche?’ ‘Well, thank the Lord, m’sieu’.’ ‘Where to and where from, + Babiche?’ ‘To the Great Fort by the old trail, from the Far-off River, + m’sieu’.’ ‘Come safe along, Babiche.’ ‘Merci, m’sieu’; the good God + travels north, m’sieu’.’ ‘Adieu, Babiche.’ ‘Adieu, m’sieu’.’ That is about + the way of the thing, year after year. Sometimes a night at a hut or a + post, but mostly alone—alone, except for the dogs. He slept with + them, and they slept on the mails—to guard: as though there should + be highwaymen on the Prairie of the Ten Stars! But no, it was his way, + m’sieu’. Now and again I crossed him on the trail, for have I not + travelled to every corner of the north? We were not so great friends, for—well, + Babiche is a man who says his aves, and never was a loafer, and there was + no reason why he should have love for me; but we were good company when we + met. I knew him when he was a boy down on the Chaudiere, and he always had + a heart like a lion-and a woman. I had seen him fight, I had seen him + suffer cold, and I had heard him sing. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I was up last fall to Fort St. Saviour. Ho, how dull was it! + Macgregor, the trader there, has brains like rubber. So I said, I will go + down to Fort O’Glory. I knew someone would be there—it is nearer the + world. So I started away with four dogs and plenty of jerked buffalo, and + so much brown brandy as Macgregor could squeeze out of his eye! Never, + never were there such days—the frost shaking like steel and silver + as it powdered the sunlight, the white level of snow lifting and falling, + and falling and lifting, the sky so great a travel away, the air which + made you cry out with pain one minute and gave you joy the next. And all + so wild, so lonely! Yet I have seen hanging in those plains cities all + blue and red with millions of lights showing, and voices, voices + everywhere, like the singing of soft masses. After a time in that cold up + there you are no longer yourself—no. You move in a dream. Eh bien, + m’sieu’, there came, I thought, a dream to me one evening—well, + perhaps one afternoon, for the days are short—so short, the sun just + coming over a little bend of sky, and sinking down like a big orange ball. + I come out of a tumble of little hills, and there over on the plains I saw + a sight! Ragged hills of ice were thrown up, as if they’d been heaved out + by the breaking earth, jutting here and there like wedges—like the + teeth of a world. Alors, on one crag, shaped as an anvil, I saw what + struck me like a blow, and I felt the blood shoot out of my heart and + leave it dry. I was for a minute like a pump with no water in its throat + to work the piston and fetch the stream up. I got sick and numb. There on + that anvil of snow and ice I saw a big white bear, one such as you shall + see within the Arctic Circle, his long nose fetching out towards that + bleeding sun in the sky, his white coat shining. But that was not the + thing—there was another. At the feet of the bear was a body, and one + clawed foot was on that body—of a man. So clear was the air, the red + sun shining on the face as it was turned towards me, that I wonder I did + not at once know whose it was. You cannot think, m’sieu’, what that was + like—no. But all at once I remembered the Chant of the Scarlet + Hunter. I spoke it quick, and the blood came creeping back in here.” He + tapped his chest with his slight forefinger. + </p> + <p> + “What was the chant?” asked the governor, who had scarce stirred a muscle + since the tale began. Pierre made a little gesture of deprecation. “Ah, it + is perhaps a thing of foolishness, as you may think—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. I have heard and seen in my day,” urged the governor. + </p> + <p> + “So? Good. Yes, I remember, you told me years ago, m’sieu’.... + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The blinding Trail and Night and Cold are man’s: mine is the trail + that finds the Ancient Lodge. Morning and Night they travel with + me; my camp is set by the pines, its fires are burning—are burning. + The lost, they shall sit by my fires, and the fearful ones shall + seek, and the sick shall abide. I am the Hunter, the Son of the + North; I am thy lover where no man may love thee. With me thou + shalt journey, and thine the Safe Tent. +</pre> + <p> + “As I said, the blood came back to my heart. I turned to my dogs, and gave + them a cut with the whip to see if I dreamed. They sat back and snarled, + and their wild red eyes, the same as mine, kept looking at the bear and + the quiet man on the anvil of ice and snow. Tell me, can you think of + anything like it?—the strange light, the white bear of the Pole, + that has no friends at all except the shooting stars, the great ice + plains, the quick night hurrying on, the silence—such silence as no + man can think! I have seen trouble flying at me in a hundred ways, but + this was different—yes. We come to the foot of the little hill. + Still the bear not stir. As I went up, feeling for my knives and my gun, + the dogs began to snarl with anger, and for one little step I shivered, + for the thing seem not natural. I was about two hundred feet away from the + bear when it turned slow round at me, lifting its foot from the body. The + dogs all at once come huddling about me, and I dropped on my knee to take + aim, but the bear stole away from the man and come moving down past us at + an angle, making for the plain. I could see his deep shining eyes, and the + steam roll from his nose in long puffs. Very slow and heavy, like as if he + see no one and care for no one, he shambled down, and in a minute was gone + behind a boulder. I ran on to the man—” + </p> + <p> + The governor was leaning forward, looking intently, and said now: “It’s + like a wild dream—but the north—the north is near to the + Strangest of All!” + </p> + <p> + “I knelt down and lifted him up in my arms, all a great bundle of furs and + wool, and I got my hand at last to his wrist. He was alive. It was Little + Babiche! Part of his face was frozen stiff. I rubbed out the frost with + snow, and then I forced some brandy into his mouth, good old H.B.C. + brandy,—and began to call to him: ‘Babiche! Babiche! Come back, + Babiche! The wolf’s at the pot, Babiche!’ That’s the way to call a hunter + to his share of meat. I was afraid, for the sleep of cold is the sleep of + death, and it is hard to call the soul back to this world. But I called, + and kept calling, and got him on his feet, with my arm round him. I gave + him more brandy; and at last I almost shrieked in his ear. Little by + little I saw his face take on the look of waking life. It was like the + dawn creeping over white hills and spreading into day. I said to myself: + What a thing it will be if I can fetch him back! For I never knew one to + come back after the sleep had settled on them. It is too comfortable—all + pain gone, all trouble, the world forgot, just a kind weight in all the + body, as you go sinking down, down to the valley, where the long hands of + old comrades beckon to you, and their soft, high voices cry, ‘Hello! + hello-o!’” Pierre nodded his head towards the distance, and a musing smile + divided his lips on his white teeth. Presently he folded a cigarette, and + went on: + </p> + <p> + “I had saved something to the last, as the great test, as the one thing to + open his eyes wide, if they could be opened at all. Alors, there was no + time to lose, for the wolf of Night was driving the red glow-worm down + behind the world, and I knew that when darkness came altogether—darkness + and night—there would be no help for him. Mon Dieu! how one sleeps + in the night of the north, in the beautiful wide silence!... So, m’sieu’, + just when I thought it was the time, I called, ‘Corinne! Corinne!’ Then + once again I said, ‘P’tite Corinne! P’tite Corinne! Come home! come home! + P’tite Corinne!’ I could see the fight in the jail of sleep. But at last + he killed his jailer; the doors in his brain flew open, and his mind came + out through his wide eyes. But he was blind a little and dazed, though it + was getting dark quick. I struck his back hard, and spoke loud from a song + that we used to sing on the Chaudiere—Babiche and all of us, years + ago. Mon Dieu! how I remember those days— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Which is the way that the sun goes? + The way that my little one come. + Which is the good path over the hills? + The path that leads to my little one’s home— + To my little one’s home, m’sieu’, m’sieu’!’ +</pre> + <p> + “That did it. ‘Corinne, ma p’tite Corinne!’ he said; but he did not look + at me—only stretch out his hands. I caught them, and shook them, and + shook him, and made him take a step forward; then I slap him on the back + again, and said loud: ‘Come, come, Babiche, don’t you know me? See + Babiche, the snow’s no sleeping-bunk, and a polar bear’s no good friend.’ + ‘Corinne!’ he went on, soft and slow. ‘Ma p’tite Corinne!’ He smiled to + himself; and I said, ‘Where’ve you been, Babiche? Lucky I found you, or + you’d have been sleeping till the Great Mass.’ Then he looked at me + straight in the eyes, and something wild shot out of his. His hand + stretched over and caught me by the shoulder, perhaps to steady himself, + perhaps because he wanted to feel something human. Then he looked round + slow-all round the plain, as if to find something. At that moment a little + of the sun crept back, and looked up over the wall of ice, making a glow + of yellow and red for a moment; and never, north or south, have I seen + such beauty—so delicate, so awful. It was like a world that its + Maker had built in a fit of joy, and then got tired of, and broke in + pieces, and blew out all its fires, and left—ah yes—like that! + And out in the distance I—I only saw a bear travelling eastwards.” + </p> + <p> + The governor said slowly: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And I took My staff Beauty, and cut it asunder, that I might break + My covenant which I had made with all the people. +</pre> + <p> + “Yes—like that.” Pierre continued: “Babiche turned to me with a + little laugh, which was a sob too. ‘Where is it, Pierre?’ said he. I knew + he meant the bear. ‘Gone to look for another man,’ I said, with a gay + look, for I saw that he was troubled. ‘Come,’ said he at once. As we went, + he saw my dogs. He stopped short and shook a little, and tears came into + his eyes. ‘What is it, Babiche?’ said I. He looked back towards the south. + ‘My dogs—Brandy-wine, Come-along, ‘Poleon, and the rest—died + one night all of an hour. One by one they crawl over to where I lay in my + fur bag, and die there, huddling by me—and such cries—such + cries! There was poison or something in the frozen fish I’d given them. I + loved them every one; and then there was the mails, the year’s mails—how + should they be brought on? That was a bad thought, for I had never missed—never + in ten years. There was one bunch of letters which the governor said to me + was worth more than all the rest of the mails put together, and I was to + bring it to Fort St. Saviour, or not show my face to him again. I leave + the dogs there in the snow, and come on with the sled, carrying all the + mails. Ah, the blessed saints, how heavy the sled got, and how lonely it + was! Nothing to speak to—no one, no thing, day after day. At last I + go to cry to the dogs, “Come-along! ‘Poleon! Brandy-wine!”—like + that! I think I see them there, but they never bark and they never snarl, + and they never spring to the snap of the whip.... I was alone. Oh, my + head! my head! If there was only something alive to look at, besides the + wide white plain, and the bare hills of ice, and the sun-dogs in the sky! + Now I was wild, next hour I was like a child, then I gnash my teeth like a + wolf at the sun, and at last I got on my knees. The tears froze my eyelids + shut, but I kept saying, “Ah, my great Friend, my Jesu, just something, + something with the breath of life! Leave me not all alone!” and I got + sleepier all the time. + </p> + <p> + “‘I was sinking, sinking, so quiet and easy, when all at once I felt + something beside me; I could hear it breathing, but I could not open my + eyes at first, for, as I say, the lashes were froze. Something touch me, + smell me, and a nose was push against my chest. I put out my hand ver’ + soft and touch it. I had no fear, I was so glad I could have hug it, but I + did not—I drew back my hand quiet and rub my eyes. In a little I can + see. There stand the thing—a polar bear—not ten feet away, its + red eyes shining. On my knees I spoke to it, talk to it, as I would to a + man. It was like a great wild dog, fierce, yet kind, and I fed it with the + fish which had been for Brandy-wine and the rest—but not to kill it! + and it did not die. That night I lie down in my bag—no, I was not + afraid! The bear lie beside me, between me and the sled. Ah, it was warm! + Day after day we travel together, and camp together at night—ah, + sweet Sainte Anne, how good it was, myself and the wild beast such + friends, alone in the north! But to-day—a little while ago—something + went wrong with me, and I got sick in the head, a swimming like a tide + wash in and out. I fall down-asleep. When I wake I find you here beside me—that + is all. The bear must have drag me here.’” + </p> + <p> + Pierre stuck a splinter into the fire to light another cigarette, and + paused as if expecting the governor to speak, but no word coming, he + continued: “I had my arm around him while we talked and come slowly down + the hill. Soon he stopped and said, ‘This is the place.’ It was a cave of + ice, and we went in. Nothing was there to see except the sled. Babiche + stopped short. It come to him now that his good comrade was gone. He + turned, and looked out, and called, but there was only the empty night, + the ice, and the stars. Then he come back, sat down on the sled, and the + tears fall.... I lit my spirit-lamp, boiled coffee, got pemmican from my + bag, and I tried to make him eat. No. He would only drink the coffee. At + last he said to me, ‘What day is this, Pierre?’ ‘It is the day of the + Great Birth, Babiche,’ I said. He made the sign of the cross, and was + quiet, so quiet! but he smile to himself, and kept saying in a whisper: + ‘Ma p’tite Corinne! Ma p’tite Corinne!’ The next day we come on safe, and + in a week I was back at Fort St. Saviour with Babiche and all the mails, + and that most wonderful letter of the governor’s.” + </p> + <p> + “The letter was to tell a factor that his sick child in the hospital at + Quebec was well,” the governor responded quietly. “Who was ‘Ma p’tite + Corinne,’ Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + “His wife—in heaven; and his child—on the Chaudiere, m’sieu’. + The child came and the mother went on the same day of the Great Birth. He + has a soft heart—that Babiche!” + </p> + <p> + “And the white bear—so strange a thing!” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, who can tell? The world is young up here. When it was all young, + man and beast were good comrades, maybe.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, maybe. What shall be done with Little Babiche, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + “He will never be the same again on the old trail, m’sieu’!” + </p> + <p> + There was silence for a long time, but at last the governor said, musing, + almost tenderly, for he never had a child: “Ma p’tite Corinne!—Little + Babiche shall live near his child, Pierre. I will see to that.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre said no word, but got up, took off his hat to the governor, and sat + down again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AT POINT O’ BUGLES + </h2> + <h3> + “John York, John York, where art thou gone, John York?” + </h3> + <p> + “What’s that, Pierre?” said Sir Duke Lawless, starting to his feet and + peering round. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” was Pierre’s reply. “Wait for the rest.... There!” + </p> + <p> + “King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy bugles.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Duke was about to speak, but Pierre lifted a hand in warning, and then + through the still night there came the long cry of a bugle, rising, + falling, strangely clear, echoing and echoing again, and dying away. A + moment, and the call was repeated, with the same effect, and again a third + time; then all was still, save for the flight of birds roused from the + desire of night, and the long breath of some animal in the woods sinking + back to sleep. + </p> + <p> + Their camp was pitched on the south shore of Hudson’s Bay, many leagues to + the west of Rupert House, not far from the Moose River. Looking north was + the wide expanse of the bay, dotted with sterile islands here and there; + to the east were the barren steppes of Labrador, and all round them the + calm, incisive air of a late September, when winter begins to shake out + his frosty curtains and hang them on the cornice of the north, despite the + high protests of the sun. The two adventurers had come together after + years of separation, and Sir Duke had urged Pierre to fare away with him + to Hudson’s Bay, which he had never seen, although he had shares in the + great Company, left him by his uncle the admiral. + </p> + <p> + They were camped in a hollow, to the right a clump of hardy trees, with no + great deal of foliage, but some stoutness; to the left a long finger of + land running out into the water like a wedge, the most eastern point of + the western shore of Hudson’s Bay. It was high and bold, and, somehow, had + a fine dignity and beauty. From it a path led away north to a great + log-fort called King’s House. + </p> + <p> + Lawless saw Pierre half rise and turn his head, listening. Presently he, + too, heard the sound-the soft crash of crisp grass under the feet. He + raised himself to a sitting posture and waited. + </p> + <p> + Presently a tall figure came out of the dusk into the light of their fire, + and a long arm waved a greeting at them. Both Lawless and Pierre rose to + their feet. The stranger was dressed in buckskin, he carried a rifle, and + around his shoulder was a strong yellow cord, from which hung a bugle. + </p> + <p> + “How!” he said, with a nod, and drew near the fire, stretching out his + hands to the blaze. + </p> + <p> + “How!” said Lawless and Pierre. + </p> + <p> + After a moment Lawless drew from his blanket a flask of brandy, and + without a word handed it over the fire. The fingers of the two men met in + the flicker of flames, a sort of bond by fire, and the stranger raised the + flask. + </p> + <p> + “Chin-chin,” he said, and drank, breathing a long sigh of satisfaction + afterwards as he handed it back; but it was Pierre that took it, and again + fingers touched in the bond of fire. Pierre passed the flask to Lawless, + who lifted it. + </p> + <p> + “Chin-chin,” he said, drank, and gave the flask to Pierre again, who did + as did the others, and said “Chin-chin” also. + </p> + <p> + By that salutation of the east, given in the far north, Lawless knew that + he had met one who had lighted fires where men are many and close to the + mile as holes in a sieve. + </p> + <p> + They all sat down, and tobacco went round, the stranger offering his, + while the two others, with true hospitality, accepted. + </p> + <p> + “We heard you over there—it was you?” said Lawless, nodding towards + Point o’ Bugles, and glancing at the bugle the other carried. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it was I,” was the reply. “Someone always does it twice a year: on + the 25th September and the 25th March. I’ve done it now without a break + for ten years, until it has got to be a sort of religion with me, and the + whole thing’s as real as if King George and John York were talking. As I + tramp to the point or swing away back, in summer barefooted, in winter on + my snowshoes, to myself I seem to be John York on the trail of the king’s + bugles. I’ve thought so much about the whole thing, I’ve read so many of + John York’s letters—and how many times one of the King’s!—that + now I scarcely know which is the bare story, and which the bit’s I’ve + dreamed as I’ve tramped over the plains or sat in the quiet at King’s + House, spelling out little by little the man’s life, from the cues I found + in his journal, in the Company’s papers, and in that one letter of the + King’s.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre’s eyes were now more keen than those of Lawless: for years he had + known vaguely of this legend of Point o’ Bugles. + </p> + <p> + “You know it all,” he said—“begin at the beginning: how and when you + first heard, how you got the real story, and never mind which is taken + from the papers and which from your own mind—if it all fits in it is + all true, for the lie never fits in right with the square truth. If you + have the footprints and the handprints you can tell the whole man; if you + have the horns of a deer you know it as if you had killed it, skinned it, + and potted it.” + </p> + <p> + The stranger stretched himself before the fire, nodding at his hosts as he + did so, and then began: + </p> + <p> + “Well, a word about myself first,” he said, “so you’ll know just where you + are. I was full up of life in London town and India, and that’s a fact. + I’d plenty of friends and little money, and my will wasn’t equal to the + task of keeping out of the hands of the Jews. I didn’t know what to do, + but I had to go somewhere, that was clear. Where? An accident decided it. + I came across an old journal of my great-grandfather, John York,—my + name’s Dick Adderley,—and just as if a chain had been put round my + leg and I’d been jerked over by the tipping of the world, I had to come to + Hudson’s Bay. John York’s journal was a thing to sit up nights to read. It + came back to England after he’d had his fill of Hudson’s Bay and the earth + beneath, and had gone, as he himself said on the last page of the journal, + to follow the king’s buglers in ‘the land that is far off.’ God and the + devil were strong in old John York. I didn’t lose much time after I’d read + the journal. I went to Hudson’s Bay house in London, got a place in the + Company, by the help of the governor himself, and came out. I’ve learned + the rest of the history of old John York—the part that never got to + England; for here at King’s House there’s a holy tradition that the real + John York belongs to it and to it alone.” + </p> + <p> + Adderley laughed a little. “King’s House guards John York’s memory, and + it’s as fresh and real here now as though he’d died yesterday; though it’s + forgotten in England, and by most who bear his name, and the present + Prince of Wales maybe never heard of the roan who was a close friend of + the Prince Regent, the First Gentleman of Europe.” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds sweet gossip,” said Lawless, with a smile; “we’re waiting.” + </p> + <p> + Adderley continued: “John York was an honest man, of wholesome sport, + jovial, and never shirking with the wine, commendable in his appetite, of + rollicking soul and proud temper, and a gay dog altogether—gay, but + to be trusted, too, for he had a royal heart. In the coltish days of the + Prince Regent he was a boon comrade, but never did he stoop to flattery, + nor would he hedge when truth should be spoken, as ofttimes it was needed + with the royal blade, for at times he would forget that a prince was yet a + man, topped with the accident of a crown. Never prince had truer friend, + and so in his best hours he thought, himself, and if he ever was just and + showed his better part, it was to the bold country gentleman who never + minced praise or blame, but said his say and devil take the end of it. In + truth, the Prince was wilful, and once he did a thing which might have + given a twist to the fate of England. Hot for the love of women, and with + some dash of real romance in him too, else even as a prince he might have + had shallower love and service,—he called John York one day and + said: + </p> + <p> + “‘To-night at seven, Squire John, you’ll stand with me while I put the + seal on the Gates of Eden;’ and, when the other did not guess his import, + added: ‘Sir Mark Selby is your neighbour—his daughter’s for my arms + to-night. You know her, handsome Sally Selby—she’s for your prince, + for good or ill.’ + </p> + <p> + “John York did not understand at first, for he could not think the Prince + had anything in mind but some hot escapade of love. When Mistress Selby’s + name was mentioned his heart stood still, for she had been his choice, the + dear apple of his eye, since she had bloomed towards womanhood. He had set + all his hopes upon her, tarrying till she should have seen some little + life before he asked her for his wife. He had her father’s Godspeed to his + wooing, for he was a man whom all men knew honest and generous as the sun, + and only choleric with the mean thing. She, also, had given him good cause + to think that he should one day take her to his home, a loved and honoured + wife. His impulse, when her name passed the Prince’s lips, was to draw his + sword, for he would have called an emperor to account; but presently he + saw the real meaning of the speech: that the Prince would marry her that + night.” + </p> + <p> + Here the story-teller paused again, and Pierre said softly, inquiringly: + </p> + <p> + “You began to speak in your own way, and you’ve come to another way—like + going from an almanac to the Mass.” + </p> + <p> + The other smiled. “That’s so. I’ve heard it told by old Shearton at King’s + House, who speaks as if he’d stepped out of Shakespeare, and somehow I + seem to hear him talking, and I tell it as he told it last year to the + governor of the Company. Besides, I’ve listened these seven years to his + style.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a strange beginning—unwritten history of England,” said Sir + Duke musingly. + </p> + <p> + “You shall hear stranger things yet,” answered Adderley. “John York could + hardly believe it at first, for the thought of such a thing never had + place in his mind. Besides, the Prince knew how he had looked upon the + lady, and he could not have thought his comrade would come in between him + and his happiness. Perhaps it was the difficulty, adding spice to the + affair, that sent the Prince to the appeal of private marriage to win the + lady, and John York always held that he loved her truly then, the first + and only real affection of his life. The lady—who can tell what won + her over from the honest gentleman to the faithless prince? That soul of + vanity which wraps about the real soul of every woman fell down at last + before the highest office in the land, and the gifted bearer of the + office. But the noble spirit in her brought him to offer marriage, when he + might otherwise have offered, say, a barony. There is a record of that and + more in John York’s Memoirs which I will tell you, for they have settled + in my mind like an old song, and I learned them long ago. I give you John + York’s words written by his own hands: + </p> + <p> + “‘I did not think when I beheld thee last, dearest flower of the world’s + garden, that I should see thee bloom in that wide field, rank with the + sorrows of royal favour. How did my foolish eyes fill with tears when I + watched thee, all rose and gold in thy cheeks and hair, the light falling + on thee through the chapel window, putting thy pure palm into my prince’s, + swearing thy life away, selling the very blossoms of earth’s orchards for + the brier beauty of a hidden vineyard! I saw the flying glories of thy + cheeks, the halcyon weather of thy smile, the delicate lifting of thy + bosom, the dear gaiety of thy step, and, at that moment, I mourned for thy + sake that thou wert not the dullest wench in the land, for then thou hadst + been spared thy miseries, thou hadst been saved the torture-boot of a lost + love and a disacknowledged wifedom. Yet I could not hide from me that thou + wert happy at that great moment, when he swore to love and cherish thee, + till death you parted. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, George, my prince, my king, how wickedly thou didst break thy vows + with both of us who loved thee well, through good and ill report—for + they spake evil of thee, George; ay, the meanest of thy subjects spake + lightly of their king—when with that sweet soul secretly hid away in + the farthest corner of thy kingdom, thou soughtst divorce from thy later + Caroline, whom thou, unfaithful, didst charge with infidelity. When, at + last, thou didst turn again to the partner of thy youth, thy true wife in + the eyes of God, it was too late. Thou didst promise me that thou wouldst + never take another wife, never put our dear heart away, though she could + not—after our miserable laws—bear thee princes. Thou didst + break thy promise, yet she forgave thee, and I forgave thee, for well we + knew that thou wouldst pay a heavy reckoning, and that in the hour when + thou shouldst cry to us we might not come to thee; that in the days when + age and sorrow and vast troubles should oppress thee, thou wouldst long + for the true hearts who loved thee for thyself and not for aught thou + wudst give, or aught that thou wert, save as a man. + </p> + <p> + “‘When thou didst proclaim thy purpose to take Caroline to wife, I pleaded + with thee, I was wroth with thee. Thy one plea was succession. Succession! + Succession! What were a hundred dynasties beside that precious life, eaten + by shame and sorrow? It were easy for others, not thy children, to come + after thee, to rule as well as thee, as must even now be the case, for + thou hast no lawful child save that one in the loneliest corner of thy + English vineyard—alack! alack! I warned thee George, I pleaded, and + thou didst drive me out with words ill-suited to thy friend who loved + thee. + </p> + <p> + “‘I did not fear thee, I would have forced thee to thy knees or made thee + fight me, had not some good spirit cried to my heart that thou wert her + husband, and that we both had loved thee. I dared not listen to the brutal + thing thou hintedst at—that now I might fatten where I had hungered. + Thou hadst to answer for the baseness of that thought to the King of + kings, when thou wentest forth alone, no subject, courtier, friend, wife, + or child to do thee service, journeying—not en prince, George; no, + not en prince! but as a naked soul to God. + </p> + <p> + “‘Thou saidst to me: “Get thee gone, John York, where I shall no more see + thee.” And when I returned, “Wouldst thou have me leave thy country, sir?” + thou answeredst: “Blow thy quarrelsome soul to the stars where my farthest + bugle cries.” Then I said: “I go, sir, till thou callest me again—and + after; but not till thou hast honoured the child of thy honest wedlock; + till thou hast secured thy wife to the end of her life against all manner + of trouble save the shame of thy disloyalty.” There was no more for me to + do, for my deep love itself forbade my staying longer within reach of the + noble deserted soul. And so I saw the chastened glory of her face no more, + nor evermore beheld her perfectness.’” + </p> + <p> + Adderley paused once more, and, after refilling his pipe in silence, + continued: + </p> + <p> + “That was the heart of the thing. His soul sickened of the rank world, as + he called it, and he came out to the Hudson’s Bay country, leaving his + estates in care of his nephew, but taking many stores and great chests of + clothes and a shipload of furniture, instruments of music, more than a + thousand books, some good pictures, and great stores of wine. Here he came + and stayed, an officer of the Company, building King’s House, and filling + it with all the fine things he had brought with him, making in this far + north a little palace in the wilderness. Here he lived, his great heart + growing greater in this wide sinewy world, King’s House a place of + pilgrimage for all the Company’s men in the north; a noble gentleman in a + sweet exile, loving what he could no more, what he did no more, see. + </p> + <p> + “Twice a year he went to that point yonder and blew this bugle, no man + knew why or wherefore, year in, year out, till 1817. Then there came a + letter to him with great seals, which began: ‘John York, John York, where + art thou gone, John York?’ There followed a score of sorrowful sentences, + full of petulance, too, for it was as John York foretold, his prince + longed for the ‘true souls’ whom he had cast off. But he called too late, + for the neglected wife died from the shock of her prince’s longing message + to her, and when, by the same mail, John York knew that, he would not go + back to England to the King. But twice every year he went to yonder point + and spoke out the King’s words to him: ‘John York, John York, where art + thou gone, John York?’ and gave the words of his own letter in reply: + ‘King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy bugles.’ + To this he added three calls of the bugle, as you have heard.” + </p> + <p> + Adderley handed the bugle to Lawless, who looked at it with deep interest + and passed it on to Pierre. “When he died,” Adderley continued, “he left + the house, the fittings, and the stores to the officers of the Company who + should be stationed there, with a sum of money yearly, provided that twice + in twelve months the bugle should be blown as you have heard it, and those + words called out.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did he do that?” asked Lawless, nodding towards the point. + </p> + <p> + “Why do they swing the censers at the Mass?” interjected Pierre. “Man has + signs for memories, and one man seeing another’s sign will remember his + own.” + </p> + <p> + “You stay because you like it—at King’s House?” asked Lawless of + Adderley. + </p> + <p> + The other stretched himself lazily to the fire and, “I am at home,” he + said. “I have no cares. I had all there was of that other world; I’ve not + had enough of this. You’ll come with me to King’s House to-morrow?” he + added. + </p> + <p> + To their quick assent he rejoined: “You’ll never want to leave. You’ll + stay on.” + </p> + <p> + To this Lawless replied, shaking his head: “I have a wife and child in + England.” + </p> + <p> + But Pierre did not reply. He lifted the bugle, mutely asking a question of + Adderley, who as mutely replied, and then, with it in his hand, left the + other two beside the fire. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later they heard, with three calls of the bugle from the + point afterwards, Pierre’s voice: “John York, John York, where art thou + gone, John York?” + </p> + <p> + Then came the reply: + </p> + <p> + “King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy bugles.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA + </h2> + <p> + Just at the point where the Peace River first hugs the vast outpost hills + of the Rockies, before it hurries timorously on, through an unexplored + region, to Fort St. John, there stood a hut. It faced the west, and was + built half-way up Clear Mountain. In winter it had snows above it and + below it; in summer it had snow above it and a very fair stretch of trees + and grass, while the river flowed on the same, winter and summer. It was a + lonely country. Travelling north, you would have come to the Turnagain + River; west, to the Frying Pan Mountains; south, to a goodly land. But + from the hut you had no outlook towards the south; your eye came plump + against a hard lofty hill, like a wall between heaven and earth. It is + strange, too, that, when you are in the far north, you do not look towards + the south until the north turns an iron hand upon you and refuses the + hospitality of food and fire; your eyes are drawn towards the Pole by that + charm—deadly and beautiful—for which men have given up three + points of the compass, with their pleasures and ease, to seek a grave + solitude, broken only by the beat of a musk-ox’s hoofs, the long breath of + the caribou, or the wild cry of the puma. + </p> + <p> + Sir Duke Lawless had felt this charm, and had sworn that one day he would + again leave his home in Devon and his house in Pont Street, and, finding + Pierre, Shon M’Gann, and others of his old comrades, together they would + travel into those austere yet pleasant wilds. He kept his word, found Shon + M’Gann, and on an autumn day of a year not so long ago lounged in this hut + on Clear Mountain. They had had three months of travel and sport, and were + filled, but not sated, with the joy of the hunter. They were very + comfortable, for their host, Pourcette, the French Canadian, had fire and + meat in plenty, and, if silent, was attentive to their comfort—a + little, black-bearded, grey-headed man, with heavy brows over small + vigilant eyes, deft with his fingers, and an excellent sportsman, as could + be told from the skins heaped in all the corners of the large hut. + </p> + <p> + The skins were not those of mere foxes or martens or deer, but of mountain + lions and grizzlies. There were besides many soft, tiger-like skins, which + Sir Duke did not recognise. He kept looking at them, and at last went over + and examined one. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this, Monsieur Pourcette?” he said, feeling it as it lay on the + top of the pile. + </p> + <p> + The little man pushed the log on the fireplace with his moccasined foot + before he replied: “Of a puma, m’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Duke smoothed it with his hand. “I didn’t know there were pumas here.” + </p> + <p> + “Faith, Sir Duke—” + </p> + <p> + Sir Duke Lawless turned on Shon quickly. “You’re forgetting again, Shon. + There’s no ‘Sir Dukes’ between us. What you were to me years ago on the + wally-by-track and the buffalo-trail, you are now, and I’m the same also: + M’Gann and Lawless, and no other.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, Lawless, it’s true enough as he says it, for I’ve seen more + than wan skin brought in, though I niver clapped eye on the beast alive. + There’s few men go huntin’ them av their own free will, not more than they + do grizzlies; but, bedad, this French gintleman has either the luck o’ the + world, or the gift o’ that man ye tould me of, that slew the wild boars in + anciency. Look at that, now: there’s thirty or forty puma-skins, and I’d + take my oath there isn’t another man in the country that’s shot half that + in his lifetime.” + </p> + <p> + Pourcette’s eyes were on the skins, not on the men, and he did not appear + to listen. He sat leaning forward, with a strange look on his face. + Presently he got up, came over, and stroked the skins softly. A queer + chuckling noise came from his throat. + </p> + <p> + “It was good sport?” asked Lawless, feeling a new interest in him. + </p> + <p> + “The grandest sport—but it is not so easy,” answered the old man. + “The grizzly comes on you bold and strong; you know your danger right + away, and have it out. So. But the puma comes—God, how the puma + comes!” He broke off, his eyes burning bright under his bushy brows and + his body arranging itself into an attitude of expectation and alertness. + </p> + <p> + “You have travelled far. The sun goes down. You build a fire and cook your + meat, and then good tea and the tabac. It is ver’ fine. You hear the loon + crying on the water, or the last whistle of the heron up the pass. The + lights in the sky come out and shine through a thin mist—there is + nothing like that mist, it is so fine and soft. Allons. You are sleepy. + You bless the good God. You stretch pine branches, wrap in your blanket, + and lie down to sleep. If it is winter and you have a friend, you lie + close. It is all quiet. As you sleep, something comes. It slides along the + ground on its belly, like a snake. It is a pity if you have not ears that + feel—the whole body as ears. For there is a swift lunge, a snarl—ah, + you should hear it! the thing has you by the throat, and there is an end!” + </p> + <p> + The old man had acted all the scenes: a sidelong glance, a little gesture, + a movement of the body, a quick, harsh breath—without emphatic + excitement, yet with a reality and force that fascinated his two + listeners. When he paused, Shon let go a long breath, and Lawless looked + with keen inquiry at their entertainer. This almost unnatural, yet quiet, + intensity had behind it something besides the mere spirit of the + sportsman. Such exhibitions of feeling generally have an unusual personal + interest to give them point and meaning. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s wonderful, Pourcette,” he said; “but that’s when the puma has + things its own way. How is it when these come off?” He stroked the soft + furs under his hand. + </p> + <p> + The man laughed, yet without a sound—the inward, stealthy laugh, as + from a knowledge wicked in its very suggestiveness. His eyes ran from + Lawless to Shon, and back again. He put his hand on his mouth, as though + for silence, stole noiselessly over to the wall, took down his gun + quietly, and turned round. Then he spoke softly: + </p> + <p> + “To kill the puma, you must watch—always watch. You will see his + yellow eyes sometimes in a tree: you must be ready before he springs. You + will hear his breath at night as you pretend to sleep, and you wait till + you see his foot steal out of the shadow—then you have him. From a + mountain wall you watch in the morning, and, when you see him, you follow, + and follow, and do not rest till you have found him. You must never miss + fire, for he has great strength and a mad tooth. But when you have got + him, he is worth all. You cannot eat the grizzly—he is too thick and + coarse; but the puma—well, you had him from the pot to-night. Was he + not good?” + </p> + <p> + Lawless’s brows ran up in surprise. Shon spoke quickly: + </p> + <p> + “Heaven above!” he burst out. “Was it puma we had betune the teeth? And + what’s puma but an almighty cat? Sure, though, it wint as tinder as + pullets, for all that—but I wish you hadn’t tould us.” + </p> + <p> + The old man stood leaning on his gun, his chin on his hands, as they + covered the muzzle, his eyes fixed on something in his memory, the vision + of incidents he had lived or seen. + </p> + <p> + Lawless went over to the fire and relit his pipe. Shon followed him. They + both watched Pourcette. “D’ye think he’s mad?” asked Shon in a whisper. + Lawless shook his head: “Mad? No. But there’s more in this puma-hunting + than appears. How long has he lived here, did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “Four years; and, durin’ that time, yours and mine are the only white + faces he has seen, except one.” + </p> + <p> + “Except one. Well, whose was the one? That might be interesting. Maybe + there’s a story in that.” + </p> + <p> + “Faith, Lawless, there’s a story worth the hearin’, I’m thinkin’, to every + white man in this country. For the three years I was in the mounted + police, I could count a story for all the days o’ the calendar—and + not all o’ them would make you happy to hear.” + </p> + <p> + Pourcette turned round to them. He seemed to be listening to Shon’s words. + Going to the wall, he hung up the rifle; then he came to the fire and + stood holding out his hands to the blaze. He did not look in the least + mad, but like a man who was dominated by some one thought, more or less + weird. Short and slight, and a little bent, but more from habit—the + habit of listening and watching—than from age, his face had a stern + kind of earnestness and loneliness, and nothing at all of insanity. + </p> + <p> + Presently Lawless went to a corner and from his kit drew forth a flask. + The old man saw, and immediately brought out a wooden cup. There were two + on the shelf, and Shon pointed to the other. Pourcette took no notice. + Shon went over to get it, but Pourcette laid a hand on his arm: “Not + that.” + </p> + <p> + “For ornamint!” said Shon, laughing, and then his eyes were arrested by a + suit of buckskin and a cap of beaver, hanging on the wall. He turned them + over, and then suddenly drew back his hand, for he saw in the back of the + jacket a knife-slit. There was blood also on the buckskin. + </p> + <p> + “Holy Mary!” he said, and retreated. Lawless had not noticed; he was + pouring out the liquor. He had handed the cup first to Pourcette, who + raised it towards a gun hung above the fireplace, and said something under + his breath. + </p> + <p> + “A dramatic little fellow,” thought Lawless; “the spirit of his + forefathers—a good deal of heart, a little of the poseur.” + </p> + <p> + Then hearing Shon’s exclamation, he turned. + </p> + <p> + “It’s an ugly sight,” said Shon, pointing to the jacket. They both looked + at Pourcette, expecting him to speak. The old man reached to the coat, + and, turning it so that the cut and the blood were hid, ran his hand down + it caressingly. “Ah, poor Jo! poor Jo Gordineer!” he said; then he came + over once more to the fire, sat down, and held out his hands to the fire, + shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, Lawless, give me a drink!” said Shon. Their eyes met, and + there was the same look in the faces of both. When Shon had drunk, he + said: “So, that’s what’s come to our old friend, Jo: dead—killed or + murdered—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak so loud,” said Lawless. “Let us get the story from him + first.” + </p> + <p> + Years before, when Shon M’Gann and Pierre and Lawless had sojourned in the + Pipi Valley, Jo Gordineer had been with them, as stupid and true a man as + ever drew in his buckle in a hungry land, or let it out to munch corn and + oil. When Lawless returned to find Shon and others of his companions, he + had asked for Gordineer. But not Shon nor anyone else could tell aught of + him; he had wandered north to outlying goldfields, and then had + disappeared completely. But there, as it would seem, his coat and cap + hung, and his rifle, dust-covered, kept guard over the fire. + </p> + <p> + Shon went over to the coat, did as Pourcette had done, and said: “Is it + gone y’are, Jo, wid your slow tongue and your big heart? Wan by wan the + lads are off.” + </p> + <p> + Pourcette, without any warning, began speaking, but in a very quiet tone + at first, as if unconscious of the others: + </p> + <p> + “Poor Jo Gordineer! Yes, he is gone. He was my friend—so tall, and + such a hunter! We were at the Ding Dong goldfields together. When luck + went bad, I said to him: ‘Come, we will go where there is plenty of wild + meat, and a summer more beautiful than in the south.’ I did not want to + part from him, for once, when some miner stole my claim, and I fought, he + stood by me. But in some things he was a little child. That was from his + big heart. Well, he would go, he said; and we came away.” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly became silent; and shook his head, and spoke under his breath. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Lawless quietly, “you went away. What then?” + </p> + <p> + He looked up quickly, as though just aware of their presence, and + continued: + </p> + <p> + “Well, the other followed, as I said, and—” + </p> + <p> + “No, Pourcette,” interposed Lawless, “you didn’t say. Who was the other + that followed?” + </p> + <p> + The old man looked at him gravely, and a little severely, and continued: + </p> + <p> + “As I said, Gawdor followed—he and an Indian. Gawdor thought we were + going for gold, because I had said I knew a place in the north where there + was gold in a river—I know the place, but that is no matter. We did + not go for gold just then. Gawdor hated Jo Gordineer. There was a + half-breed girl. She was fine to look at. She would have gone to Gordineer + if he had beckoned, any time; but he waited—he was very slow, except + with his finger on a gun; he waited too long. + </p> + <p> + “Gawdor was mad for the girl. He knew why her feet came slow to the door + when he knocked. He would have quarrelled with Jo, if he had dared; + Gordineer was too quick a shot. He would have killed him from behind; but + it was known in the camp that he was no friend of Gordineer, and it was + not safe.” + </p> + <p> + Again Pourcette was silent. Lawless put on his knee a new pipe, filled + with tobacco. The little man took it, lighted it, and smoked on in silence + for a time undisturbed. Shon broke the silence, by a whisper to Lawless: + </p> + <p> + “Jo was a quiet man, as patient as a priest; but when his blood came up, + there was trouble in the land. Do you remimber whin—” + </p> + <p> + Lawless interrupted him and motioned towards Pourcette. The old man, after + a few puffs, held the pipe on his knee, disregarding it. Lawless silently + offered him some more whisky, but he shook his head. Presently, he again + took up the thread: + </p> + <p> + “Bien, we travelled slow up through the smoky river country, and beyond + into a wild land. We had bully sport as we went. Sometimes I heard shots + far away behind us; but Gordineer said it was my guess, for we saw nobody. + But I had a feeling. Never mind. At last we come to the Peace River. It + was in the early autumn like this, when the land is full of comfort. What + is there like it? Nothing. The mountains have colours like a girl’s eyes; + the smell of the trees is sweet like a child’s breath, and the grass feels + for the foot and lifts it with a little soft spring. We said we could live + here for ever. We built this house high up, as you see, first, because it + is good to live high—it puts life in the blood; and, as Gordineer + said, it is noble to look far over the world, every time your house-door + is open, or the parchment is down from the window. We killed wapiti and + caribou without number, and cached them for our food. We caught fish in + the river, and made tea out of the brown berry—it is very good. We + had flour, a little, which we had brought with us, and I went to Fort St. + John and got more. Since then, down in the valley, I have wheat every + summer; for the Chinook winds blow across the mountains and soften the + bitter cold. + </p> + <p> + “Well, for that journey to Fort St. John. When I got back I found Gawdor + with Gordineer. He said he had come north to hunt. His Indian had left, + and he had lost his way. Gordineer believed him. He never lied himself. I + said nothing, but watched. After a time he asked where the gold-field was. + I told him, and he started away—it was about fifty miles to the + north. He went, and on his way back he come here. He say he could not find + the place, and was going south. I know he lied. At this time I saw that + Gordineer was changed. He was slow in the head, and so, when he began + thinking up here, it made him lonely. It is always in a fine land like + this, where game is plenty, and the heart dances for joy in your throat, + and you sit by the fire—that you think of some woman who would be + glad to draw in and tie the strings of the tent-curtain, or fasten the + latch of the door upon you two alone.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps some memory stirred within the old man, other than that of his + dead comrade, for he sighed, muffled his mouth in his beard, and then + smiled in a distant way at the fire. The pure truth of what he said came + home to Shon M’Gann and Sir Duke Lawless; for both, in days gone by, had + sat at camp-fires in silent plains, and thought upon women from whom they + believed they were parted for ever, yet who were only kept from them for a + time, to give them happier days. They were thinking of these two women + now. They scarcely knew how long they sat there thinking. Time passes + swiftly when thoughts are cheerful, or are only tinged with the soft + melancholy of a brief separation. Memory is man’s greatest friend and + worst enemy. + </p> + <p> + At last the old man continued: “I saw the thing grew on him. He was not + sulky, but he stare much in the fire at night. In the daytime he was + differen’. A hunter thinks only of his sport. Gawdor watched him. + Gordineer’s hand was steady; his nerve was all right. I have seen him + stand still till a grizzly come within twice the length of his gun. Then + he would twist his mouth, and fire into the mortal spot. Once we were out + in the Wide Wing pass. We had never had such a day. Gordineer make grand + shots, better than my own; and men have said I can shoot like the devil—ha! + ha!” He chuckled to himself noiselessly, and said in a whisper “Twenty + grizzlies, and fifty pumas!” + </p> + <p> + Then he rubbed his hands softly on his knees, and spoke aloud again: “Ici, + I was proud of him. We were standing together on a ledge of rock. Gawdor + was not far away. Gawdor was a poor hunter, and I knew he was wild at + Gordineer’s great luck.... A splendid bull-wapiti come out on a rock + across the gully. It was a long shot. I did not think Gordineer could make + it; I was not sure that I could—the wind was blowing and the range + was long. But he draw up his gun like lightning, and fire all at once. The + bull dropped clean over the cliff, and tumbled dead upon the rocks below. + It was fine. But, then, Gordineer slung his gun under his arm, and say: + ‘That is enough. I am going to the hut.’ + </p> + <p> + “He went away. That night he did not talk. The next morning, when I say, + ‘We will be off again to the pass,’ he shake his head. He would not go. He + would shoot no more, he said. I understood: it was the girl. He was wide + awake at last. Gawdor understanded also. He know that Gordineer would go + to the south—to her. + </p> + <p> + “I was sorry; but it was no use. Gawdor went with me to the pass. When we + come back, Jo was gone. On a bit of birch-bark he had put where he was + going, and the way he would take. He said he would come back to me—ah, + the brave comrade! Gawdor say nothing, but his looks were black. I had a + feeling. I sat up all night, smoking. I was not afraid, but I know Gawdor + had found the valley of gold, and he might put a knife in me, because to + know of such a thing alone is fine. Just at dawn, he got up and go out. He + did not come back. + </p> + <p> + “I waited, and at last went to the pass. In the afternoon, just as I was + rounding the corner of a cliff, there was a shot—then another. The + first went by my head; the second caught me along the ribs, but not to + great hurt. Still, I fell from the shock, and lost some blood. It was + Gawdor; he thought he had killed me. + </p> + <p> + “When I come to myself I bound up the little furrow in the flesh, and + start away. I know that Gawdor would follow Gordineer. I follow him, + knowing the way he must take. I have never forget the next night. I had to + travel hard, and I track him by his fires and other things. When sunset + come, I do not stop. I was in a valley, and I push on. There was a little + moon. At last I saw a light ahead-a camp-fire, I know. I was weak, and + could have dropped; but a dread was on me. + </p> + <p> + “I come to the fire. I saw a man lying near it. Just as I saw him, he was + trying to rise. But, as he did so, something sprang out of the shadow upon + him, at his throat. I saw him raise his hand, and strike it with a knife. + The thing let go, and then I fire—but only scratched, I think. It + was a puma. It sprang away again, into the darkness. I ran to the man, and + raised him. It was my friend. He looked up at me and shake his head. He + was torn at the throat.... But there was something else—a wound in + the back. He was stooping over the fire when he was stabbed, and he fell. + He saw that it was Gawdor. He had been left for dead, as I was. Nom de + Dieu! just when I come and could have save him, the puma come also. It is + the best men who have such luck. I have seen it often. I used to wonder + they did not curse God.” + </p> + <p> + He crossed himself and mumbled something. Lawless rose, and walked up and + down the room once or twice, pulling at his beard and frowning. His eyes + were wet. Shon kept blowing into his closed hand and blinking at the fire. + Pourcette got up and took down the gun from the chimney. He brushed off + the dust with his coat-sleeve, and fondled it, shaking his head at it a + little. As he began to speak again, Lawless sat down. + </p> + <p> + “Now I know why they do not curse. Something curses for them. Jo give me a + word for her, and say ‘Well, it is all right; but I wish I had killed the + puma.’ There was nothing more.... I followed Gawdor for days. I know that + he would go and get someone, and go back to the gold. I thought at last I + had missed him; but no. I had made up my mind what to do when I found him. + One night, just as the moon was showing over the hills, I come upon him. I + was quiet as a puma. I have a stout cord in my pocket, and another about + my body. Just as he was stooping over the fire, as Gordineer did, I sprang + upon him, clasping him about the neck, and bringing him to the ground. He + could not get me off. I am small, but I have a grip. Then, too, I had one + hand at his throat. It was no use to struggle. The cord and a knife were + in my teeth. It was a great trick, but his breath was well gone, and I + fastened his hands. It was no use to struggle. I tied his feet and legs. + Then I carried him to a tree and bound him tight. I unfastened his hands + again and tied them round the tree. Then I built a great fire not far + away. He begged at first and cried. But I was hard. He got wild, and at + last when I leave him he cursed! It was like nothing I ever heard. He was + a devil... I come back after I have carry the message to the poor girl—it + is a sad thing to see the first great grief of the young! Gawdor was not + there. The pumas and others had been with him. + </p> + <p> + “There was more to do. I wanted to kill that puma which set its teeth in + the throat of my friend. I hunted the woods where it had happened, beating + everywhere, thinking that, perhaps, it was dead. There was not much blood + on the leaves, so I guessed that it had not died. I hunted from that spot, + and killed many—many. I saw that they began to move north. At last I + got back here. From here I have hunted and killed them slow; but never + that one with a wound in the shoulder from Jo’s knife. Still, I can wait. + There is nothing like patience for the hunter and for the man who would + have blood for blood.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and Lawless spoke. “And when you have killed that puma, + Pourcette—if you ever do-what then?” + </p> + <p> + Pourcette fondled the gun, then rose and hung it up again before he + replied. + </p> + <p> + “Then I will go to Fort St. John, to the girl—she is there with her + father—and sell all the skins to the factor, and give her the + money.” He waved his hand round the room. “There are many skins here, but + I have more cached not far away. Once a year I go to the Fort for flour + and bullets. A dog-team and a bois-brule bring them, and then I am alone + as before. When all that is done I will come back.” + </p> + <p> + “And then, Pourcette?” said Shon. + </p> + <p> + “Then I will hang that one skin over the chimney where his gun is—and + go out and kill more pumas. What else can one do? When I stop killing I + shall be killed. A million pumas and their skins are not worth the life of + my friend.” + </p> + <p> + Lawless looked round the room, at the wooden cup, the gun, the + bloodstained clothes on the wall, and the skins. He got up, came over, and + touched Pourcette on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Little man,” he said, “give it up, and come with me. Come to Fort St. + John, sell the skins, give the money to the girl, and then let us travel + to the Barren Grounds together, and from there to the south country again. + You will go mad up here. You have killed enough—Gawdor and many + pumas. If Jo could speak, he would say, Give it up. I knew Jo. He was my + good friend before he was yours—mine and M’Gann’s here—and we + searched for him to travel with us. He would have done so, I think, for we + had sport and trouble of one kind and another together. And he would have + asked you to come also. Well, do so, little man. We haven’t told you our + names. I am Sir Duke Lawless, and this is Shon M’Gann.” + </p> + <p> + Pourcette nodded: “I do not know how it come to me, but I was sure from + the first you are his friends. He speak often of you and of two others—where + are they?” + </p> + <p> + Lawless replied, and, at the name of Pretty Pierre, Shon hid his forehead + in his hand, in a troubled way. “And you will come with us,” said Lawless, + “away from this loneliness?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not lonely,” was the reply. “To hear the thrum of the pigeon, the + whistle of the hawk, the chatter of the black squirrel, and the long cry + of the eagle, is not lonely. Then, there is the river and the pines—all + music; and for what the eye sees, God has been good; and to kill pumas is + my joy.... So, I cannot go. These hills are mine. Few strangers come, and + none stop but me. Still, to-morrow or any day, I will show you the way to + the valley where the gold is. Perhaps riches is there, perhaps not, you + shall find.” + </p> + <p> + Lawless saw that it was no use to press the matter. The old man had but + one idea, and nothing could ever change it. Solitude fixes our hearts + immovably on things—call it madness, what you will. In busy life we + have no real or lasting dreams, no ideals. We have to go to the primeval + hills and the wild plains for them. When we leave the hills and the + plains, we lose them again. Shon was, however, for the valley of gold. He + was a poor man, and it would be a joyful thing for him if one day he could + empty ample gold into his wife’s lap. Lawless was not greedy, but he and + good gold were not at variance. + </p> + <p> + “See,” said Shon, “the valley’s the thing. We can hunt as we go, and if + there’s gold for the scrapin’, why, there y’are—fill up and come + again. If not, divil the harm done. So here’s thumbs up to go, say I. But + I wish, Lawless, I wish that I’d niver known how Jo wint off, an’ I wish + we were all t’gither agin, as down in the Pipi Valley.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing stands in this world, Shon, but the faith of comrades and + the truth of good women. The rest hangs by a hair. I’ll go to the valley + with you. It’s many a day since I washed my luck in a gold-pan.” + </p> + <p> + “I will take you there,” said Pourcette, suddenly rising, and, with shy + abrupt motions grasping their hands and immediately letting them go again. + “I will take you to-morrow.” Then he spread skins upon the floor, put wood + upon the fire, and the three were soon asleep. + </p> + <p> + The next morning, just as the sun came laboriously over the white peak of + a mountain, and looked down into the great gulch beneath the hut, the + three started. For many hours they crept along the side of the mountain, + then came slowly down upon pine-crested hills, and over to where a small + plain stretched out. It was Pourcette’s little farm. Its position was such + that it caught the sun always, and was protected from the north and east + winds. Tall shafts of Indian corn with their yellow tassels were still + standing, and the stubble of the field where the sickle had been showed in + the distance like a carpet of gold. It seemed strange to Lawless that this + old man beside him should be thus peaceful in his habits, the most + primitive and arcadian of farmers, and yet one whose trade was blood—whose + one purpose in life was destruction and vengeance. + </p> + <p> + They pushed on. Towards the end of the day they came upon a little herd of + caribou, and had excellent sport. Lawless noticed that Pourcette seemed + scarcely to take any aim at all, so swift and decisive was his handling of + the gun. They skinned the deer and cached them, and took up the journey + again. For four days they travelled and hunted alternately. Pourcette had + shot two mountain lions, but they had seen no pumas. + </p> + <p> + On the morning of the fifth day they came upon the valley where the gold + was. There was no doubt about it. A beautiful little stream ran through + it, and its bed was sprinkled with gold—a goodly sight to a poor man + like Shon, interesting enough to Lawless. For days, while Lawless and + Pourcette hunted, Shon laboured like a galley-slave, making the little + specks into piles, and now and again crowning a pile with a nugget. The + fever of the hunter had passed from him, and another fever was on him. The + others urged him to come away. The winter would soon be hard on them; he + must go, and he and Lawless would return in the spring. + </p> + <p> + Prevailing on him at last, they started back to Clear Mountain. The first + day Shon was abstracted. He carried the gold he had gathered in a bag + wound about his body. It was heavy, and he could not travel fast. One + morning, Pourcette, who had been off in the hills, came to say that he had + sighted a little herd of wapiti. Shon had fallen and sprained his arm the + evening before (gold is heavy to carry), and he did not go with the + others. He stayed and dreamed of his good fortune, and of his home. In the + late afternoon he lay down in the sun beside the camp-fire and fell asleep + from much thinking. Lawless and Pourcette had little success. The herd had + gone before they arrived. They beat the hills, and turned back to camp at + last, without fret, like good sportsmen. At a point they separated, to + come down upon the camp at different angles, in the hope of still getting + a shot. The camp lay exposed upon a platform of the mountain. + </p> + <p> + Lawless came out upon a ledge of rock opposite the camp, a gulch lying + between. He looked across. He was in the shadow, the other wall of the + gulch was in the sun. The air was incomparably clear and fresh, with an + autumnal freshness. Everything stood out distinct and sharply outlined, + nothing flat or blurred. He saw the camp, and the fire, with the smoke + quivering up in a diffusing blue column, Shon lying beside it. He leaned + upon his rifle musingly. The shadows of the pines were blue and cold, but + the tops of them were burnished with the cordial sun, and a glacier-field, + somehow, took on a rose and violet light, reflected, maybe, from the + soft-complexioned sky. He drew in a long breath of delight, and widened + his line of vision. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, something he saw made him lurch backward. At an angle in almost + equal distance from him and Shon, upon a small peninsula of rock, a + strange thing was happening. Old Pourcette was kneeling, engaged with his + moccasin. Behind him was the sun, against which he was abruptly defined, + looking larger than usual. Clear space and air soft with colour were about + him. Across this space, on a little sloping plateau near him, there crept + an animal. It seemed to Lawless that he could see the lithe stealthiness + of its muscles and the ripple of its skin. But that was imagination, + because he was too far away. He cried out, and swung his gun shoulderwards + in desperation. But, at the moment, Pourcette turned sharply round, saw + his danger, caught his gun, and fired as the puma sprang. There had been + no chance for aim, and the beast was only wounded. It dropped upon the + man. He let the gun fall; it rolled and fell over the cliff. Then came a + scene, wicked in its peril to Pourcette, for whom no aid could come, + though two men stood watching the great fight—Shon M’Gann, awake + now, and Lawless—with their guns silent in their hands. They dare + not fire, for fear of injuring the man, and they could not reach him in + time to be of help. + </p> + <p> + There against the weird solitary sky the man and the puma fought. When the + animal dropped on him, Pourcette caught it by the throat with both hands, + and held back its fangs; but its claws were furrowing the flesh of his + breast and legs. His long arms were of immense strength, and though the + pain of his torn flesh was great he struggled grandly with the beast, and + bore it away, from his body. As he did so he slightly changed the position + of one hand. It came upon a welt-a scar. When he felt that, new courage + and strength seemed given him. He gave a low growl like an animal, and + then, letting go one hand, caught at the knife in his belt. As he did so + the puma sprang away from him, and crouched upon the rock, making ready + for another leap. Lawless and Shon could see its tail curving and beating. + But now, to their astonishment, the man was the aggressor. He was filled + with a fury which knows nothing of fear. The welt his fingers had felt + burned them. + </p> + <p> + He came slowly upon the puma. Lawless could see the hard glitter of his + knife. The puma’s teeth sawed together, its claws picked at the rocks, its + body curved for a spring. The man sprang first, and ran the knife in; but + not into a mortal corner. Once more they locked. The man’s fingers were + again at the puma’s throat, and they swayed together, the claws of the + beast making surface havoc. But now as they stood up, to the eyes of the + fearful watchers inextricably mixed, the man lunged again with his knife, + and this time straight into the heart of the murderer. The puma loosened, + quivered, fell back dead. The man rose to his feet with a cry, and his + hands stretched above his head, as it were in a kind of ecstasy. Shon + forgot his gold and ran; Lawless hurried also. + </p> + <p> + When the two men got to the spot they found Pourcette binding up his + wounds. He came to his feet, heedless of his hurts, and grasped their + hands. “Come, come, my friends, and see,” he cried. + </p> + <p> + He pulled forward the loose skin on the puma’s breast and showed them the + scar of a knife-wound above the one his own knife had made. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got the other murderer,” he said; “Gordineer’s knife went in here. + Sacre, but it is good!” + </p> + <p> + Pourcette’s flesh needed little medicine; he did not feel his pain and + stiffness. When they reached Clear Mountain, bringing with them the skin + which was to hang above the fireplace, Pourcette prepared to go to Fort + St. John, as he had said he would, to sell all the skins and give the + proceeds to the girl. + </p> + <p> + “When that’s done,” said Lawless, “you will have no reason for staying + here. If you will come with us after, we will go to the Fort with you. We + three will then come back in the spring to the valley of gold for sport + and riches.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke lightly, yet seriously too. The old man shook his head. “I have + thought,” he said. “I cannot go to the south. I am a hunter now, nothing + more. I have been long alone; I do not wish for change. I shall remain at + Clear Mountain when these skins have gone to Fort St. John, and if you + come to me in the spring or at any time, my door will open to you, and I + will share all with you. Gordineer was a good man. You are good men. I’ll + remember you, but I can’t go with you—no. + </p> + <p> + “Some day you would leave me to go to the women who wait for you, and then + I should be alone again. I will not change—vraiment!” + </p> + <p> + On the morning they left, he took Jo Gordineer’s cup from the shelf, and + from a hidden place brought out a flask half filled with liquor. He poured + out a little in the cup gravely, and handed it to Lawless, but Lawless + gave it back to him. + </p> + <p> + “You must drink from it,” he said, “not me.” + </p> + <p> + He held out the cup of his own flask. When each of the three had a share, + the old man raised his long arm solemnly, and said in a tone so gentle + that the others hardly recognised his voice: “To a lost comrade!” They + drank in silence. + </p> + <p> + “A little gentleman!” said Lawless, under his breath. When they were ready + to start, Lawless said to him at the last: “What will you do here, + comrade, as the days go on?” + </p> + <p> + “There are pumas in the mountains,” he replied. They parted from him upon + the ledge where the great fight had occurred, and travelled into the east. + Turning many times, they saw him still standing there. At a point where + they must lose sight of him, they looked for the last time. He was alone + with his solitary hills, leaning on his rifle. They fired two shots into + the air. They saw him raise his rifle, and two faint reports came in + reply. He became again immovable: as much a part of those hills as the + shining glacier; never to leave them. + </p> + <p> + In silence the two rounded the cliff, and saw him no more. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS + </h2> + <p> + “Swell, you see,” said Jacques Parfaite, as he gave Whiskey Wine, the + leading dog, a cut with the whip and twisted his patois to the uses of + narrative, “he has been alone there at the old Fort for a long time. I + remember when I first see him. It was in the summer. The world smell sweet + if you looked this way or that. If you drew in your breath quick from the + top of a hill you felt a great man. Ridley, the chief trader, and myself + have come to the Fort on our way to the Mackenzie River. In the yard of + the Fort the grass have grown tall, and sprung in the cracks under the + doors and windows; the Fort have not been use for a long time. Once there + was plenty of buffalo near, and the caribou sometimes; but they were all + gone—only a few. The Indians never went that way, only when the + seasons were the best. The Company have close the Post; it did not pay. + Still, it was pleasant after a long tramp to come to even an empty fort. + We know dam’ well there is food buried in the yard or under the floor, and + it would be droll to open the place for a day—Lost Man’s Tavern, we + called it. Well—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what?” said Sir Duke Lawless, who had travelled up to the Barren + Grounds for the sake of adventure and game; and, with his old friend, Shon + M’Gann, had trusted himself to the excellent care of Jacques Parfaite, the + half-breed. + </p> + <p> + Jacques cocked his head on one side and shook it wisely and mysteriously. + “Tres bien, we trailed through the long grass, pried open the shutters and + door, and went in. It is cool in the north of an evening, as you know. We + build a fire, and soon there is very fine times. Ridley pried up the + floor, and we found good things. Holy! but it was a feast. We had a little + rum also. As we talk and a great laugh swim round, there come a noise + behind us like shuffling feet. We got to our legs quick. Mon Dieu, a + strange sight! A man stand looking at us with something in his face that + make my fingers cold all at once—a look—well you would think + it was carved in stone—it never change. Once I was at Fort Garry; + the Church of St. Mary is there. They have a picture in it of the great + scoundrel Judas as he went to hang himself. Judas was a fool—what + was thirty dollars!—you give me hunder’ to take you to the Barren + Grounds. Pah!” + </p> + <p> + The half-breed chuckled, shook his head sagely, swore half-way through his + vocabulary at Whiskey Wine, gratefully received a pipe of tobacco from + Shon M’Gann, and continued: “He come in on us slow and still, and push out + long thin hands, the fingers bent like claws, towards the pot. He was + starving. Yes, it was so; but I nearly laugh. It was spring—a man is + a fool to starve in the spring. But he was differen’. There was a cause. + The factor give him soup from the pot and a little rum. He was mad for + meat, but that would have kill him—yes. He did not look at you like + a man. + </p> + <p> + “When you are starving, you are an animal. But there was something more + with this.—He made the flesh creep, he was so thin, and strange, and + sulky—eh, is that a word when the face looks dark and never smiles? + So. He would not talk. When we ask him where he come from, he points to + the north; when we ask him where he is going, he shake his head as he not + know. A man is mad not to know where he travel to up here; something comes + quick to him unless, and it is not good to die too soon. The trader said, + ‘Come with us.’ He shake his head, No. ‘P’r’aps you want to stay here,’ + said Ridley loud, showing his teeth all in a minute. He nod. Then the + trader laugh thick in his throat and give him more soup. After, he try to + make the man talk; but he was stubborn like that dirty Whiskey Wine—ah, + sacre bleu!” + </p> + <p> + Whiskey Wine had his usual portion of whip and anathema before Jacques + again took up the thread. “It was no use. He would not talk. When the + trader get angry once more, he turned to me, and the look in his face make + me sorry. I swore—Ridley did not mind that, I was thick friends with + him. I say, ‘Keep still. It is no good. He has had bad times. He has been + lost, and seen mad things. He will never be again like when God make him.’ + Very well, I spoke true. He was like a sun dog.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that ye say, Parfaite?” said Shon—“a sun dog?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Duke Lawless, puzzled, listened eagerly for the reply. + </p> + <p> + The half-breed in delight ran before them, cracking his whip and jingling + the bells at his knees. “Ah, that’s it! It is a name we have for some. You + do not know? It is easy. In the high-up country”—pointing north”—you + see sometimes many suns. But it is not many after all; it is only one; and + the rest are the same as your face in looking-glasses—one, two, + three, plenty. You see?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Sir Duke, “reflections of the real sun.” Parfaite tapped him + on the arm. “So: you have the thing. Well, this man is not himself—he + have left himself where he seen his bad times. It makes your flesh creep + sometimes when you see the sun dogs in the sky—this man did the + same. You shall see him tonight.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Duke looked at the little half-breed, and wondered that the product of + so crude a civilisation should be so little crude in his imagination. + “What happened?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing happened. But the man could not sleep. He sit before the fire, + his eyes moving here and there, and sometimes he shiver. Well, I watch + him. In the morning we leave him there, and he has been there ever since—the + only man at the Fort. The Indians do not go; they fear him; but there is + no harm in him. He is old now. In an hour we’ll be there.” + </p> + <p> + The sun was hanging, with one shoulder up like a great red peering dwarf, + on the far side of a long hillock of stunted pines, when the three arrived + at the Fort. The yard was still as Parfaite had described it—full of + rank grass, through which one path trailed to the open door. On the + stockade walls grass grew, as though where men will not live like men + Nature labours to smother. The shutters of the window were not open; light + only entered through narrow openings in them, made for the needs of + possible attacks by Indians in the far past. One would have sworn that + anyone dwelling there was more like the dead than the living. Yet it had, + too, something of the peace of the lonely graveyard. There was no one in + the Fort; but there were signs of life—skins piled here and there, a + few utensils, a bench, a hammock for food swung from the rafters, a low + fire burning in the chimney, and a rude spear stretched on the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Sure, the place gives you shivers!” said Shon. “Open go these windows. + Put wood on the fire, Parfaite; cook the meat that we’ve brought, and no + other, me boy; and whin we’re filled wid a meal and the love o’ God, bring + in your Lost Man, or Sun Dog, or whativer’s he by name or nature.” + </p> + <p> + While Parfaite and Shon busied themselves, Lawless wandered out with his + gun, and, drawn on by the clear joyous air of the evening, walked along a + path made by the same feet that had travelled the yard of the Fort. He + followed it almost unconsciously at first, thinking of the strange + histories that the far north hoards in its fastnesses, wondering what + singular fate had driven the host of this secluded tavern—farthest + from the pleasant south country, nearest to the Pole—to stand, as it + were, a sentinel at the raw outposts of the world. He looked down at the + trail where he was walking with a kind of awe, which even his cheerful + common sense could not dismiss. + </p> + <p> + He came to the top of a ridge on which were a handful of meagre trees. + Leaning on his gun, he looked straight away into the farthest distance. On + the left was a blurred edge of pines, with tops like ungainly tendrils + feeling for the sky. On the right was a long bare stretch of hills veiled + in the thin smoke of the evening, and between, straight before him, was a + wide lane of unknown country, billowing away to where it froze into the + vast archipelago that closes with the summit of the world. He experienced + now that weird charm which has drawn so many into Arctic wilds and + gathered the eyes of millions longingly. Wife, child, London, + civilisation, were forgotten for the moment. He was under a spell which, + once felt, lingers in your veins always. + </p> + <p> + At length his look drew away from the glimmering distance, and he suddenly + became conscious of human presence. Here, almost at his feet, was a man, + also looking out along that slumbering waste. He was dressed in skins, his + arms were folded across his breast, his chin bent low, and he gazed up and + out from deep eyes shadowed by strong brows. Lawless saw the shoulders of + the watcher heave and shake once or twice, and then a voice with a deep + aching trouble in it spoke; but at first he could catch no words. + Presently, however, he heard distinctly, for the man raised his hands high + above his head, and the words fell painfully: “Am I my brother’s keeper?” + </p> + <p> + Then a low harsh laugh came from him, and he was silent again. Lawless did + not move. At last the man turned round, and, seeing him standing + motionless, his gun in his hands, he gave a hoarse cry. Then he stood + still. “If you have come to kill, do not wait,” he said; “I am ready.” + </p> + <p> + At the sound of Lawless’s reassuring voice he recovered, and began, in + stumbling words, to excuse himself. His face was as Jacques Parfaite had + described it: trouble of some terrible kind was furrowed in it, and, + though his body was stalwart, he looked as if he had lived a century. His + eyes dwelt on Sir Duke Lawless for a moment, and then, coming nearer, he + said, “You are an Englishman?” + </p> + <p> + Lawless held out his hand in greeting, yet he was not sorry when the other + replied: “The hand of no man in greeting. Are you alone?” + </p> + <p> + When he had been told, he turned towards the Fort, and silently they made + their way to it. At the door he turned and said to Lawless, “My name—to + you—is Detmold.” + </p> + <p> + The greeting between Jacques and his sombre host was notable for its + extreme brevity; with Shon McGann for its hesitation—Shon’s + impressionable Irish nature was awed by the look of the man, though he had + seen some strange things in the north. Darkness was on them by this time, + and the host lighted bowls of fat with wicks of deer’s tendons, and by the + light of these and the fire they ate their supper. Parfaite beguiled the + evening with tales of the north, always interesting to Lawless; to which + Shon added many a shrewd word of humour—for he had recovered quickly + from his first timidity in the presence of the stranger. + </p> + <p> + As time went on Jacques saw that their host’s eyes were frequently fixed + on Sir Duke in a half-eager, musing way, and he got Shon away to bed and + left the two together. + </p> + <p> + “You are a singular man. Why do you live here?” said Lawless. Then he went + straight to the heart of the thing. “What trouble have you had, of what + crime are you guilty?” + </p> + <p> + The man rose to his feet, shaking, and walked to and fro in the room for a + time, more than once trying to speak, but failing. He beckoned to Lawless, + and opened the door. Lawless took his hat and followed him along the trail + they had travelled before supper until they came to the ridge where they + had met. The man faced the north, the moon glistening coldly on his grey + hair. He spoke with incredible weight and slowness: + </p> + <p> + “I tell you—for you are one who understands men, and you come from a + life that I once knew well. I know of your people. I was of good family—” + </p> + <p> + “I know the name,” said Sir Duke quietly, at the same time fumbling in his + memory for flying bits of gossip and history which he could not instantly + find. + </p> + <p> + “There were two brothers of us. I was the younger. A ship was going to the + Arctic Sea.” He pointed into the north. “We were both young and ambitious. + He was in the army, I the navy. We went with the expedition. At first it + was all beautiful and grand, and it seemed noble to search for those + others who had gone into that land and never come back. But our ship got + locked in the ice, and then came great trouble. A year went by and we did + not get free; then another year began.... Four of us set out for the + south. Two died. My brother and I were left—” + </p> + <p> + Lawless exclaimed. He now remembered how general sympathy went out to a + well-known county family when it was announced that two of its members + were lost in the Arctic regions. + </p> + <p> + Detmold continued: “I was the stronger. He grew weaker and weaker. It was + awful to live those days: the endless snow and cold, the long nights when + you could only hear the whirring of meteors, the bright sun which did not + warm you, nor even when many suns, the reflections of itself, followed it—the + mocking sun dogs, no more the sun than I am what my mother brought into + the world.... We walked like dumb men, for the dreadful cold fills the + heart with bitterness. I think I grew to hate him because he could not + travel faster, that days were lost, and death crept on so pitilessly. + Sometimes I had a mad wish to kill him. May you never know suffering that + begets such things! I laughed as I sat beside him, and saw him sink to + sleep and die.... I think I could have saved him. When he was gone I—what + do men do sometimes when starvation is on them, and they have a hunger of + hell to live? I did that shameless thing—and he was my brother!... I + lived, and was saved.” + </p> + <p> + Lawless shrank away from the man, but words of horror got no farther than + his throat. And he was glad afterwards that it was so; for when he looked + again at this woful relic of humanity before him he felt a strange pity. + </p> + <p> + “God’s hand is on me to punish,” said the man. “It will never be lifted. + Death were easy: I bear the infamy of living.” + </p> + <p> + Lawless reached out and caught him gently by the shoulders. “Poor fellow! + poor Detmold!” he said. For an instant the sorrowful face lighted, the + square chin trembled, and the hands thrust out towards Lawless, but + suddenly dropped. + </p> + <p> + “Go,” he said humbly, “and leave me here. We must not meet again... I have + had one moment of respite.... Go.” + </p> + <p> + Without a word, Lawless turned and made his way to the Fort. In the + morning the three comrades started on their journey again; but no one sped + them on their way or watched them as they went. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR + </h2> + <p> + He lived in a hut on a jutting crag of the Cliff of the King. You could + get to it by a hard climb up a precipitous pathway, or by a ladder of + ropes which swung from his cottage door down the cliff-side to the sands. + The bay that washed the sands was called Belle Amour. The cliff was huge, + sombre; it had a terrible granite moroseness. If you travelled back from + its edge until you stood within the very heart of Labrador, you would add + step upon step of barrenness and austerity. + </p> + <p> + Only at seasons did the bay share the gloom of the cliff. When out of its + shadow it was, in summer, very bright and playful, sometimes boisterous, + often idle, coquetting with the sands. There was a great difference + between the cliff and the bay: the cliff was only as it appeared, but the + bay was a shameless hypocrite. For under one shoulder it hid a range of + reefs, and, at a spot where the shadows of the cliff never reached it, and + the sun played with a grim kind of joy, a long needle of rock ran up at an + angle under the water, waiting to pierce irresistibly the adventurous ship + that, in some mad moment, should creep to its shores. + </p> + <p> + The man was more like the cliff than the bay: stern, powerful, brooding. + His only companions were the Indians, who in summer-time came and went, + getting stores of him, which he in turn got from a post of the Hudson’s + Bay Company, seventy miles up the coast. At one time the Company, + impressed by the number of skins brought to them by the pilot, and the + stores he bought of them, had thought of establishing a post at Belle + Amour; but they saw that his dealings with them were fair and that he had + small gain, and they decided to use him as an unofficial agent, and reap + what profit was to be had as things stood. Kenyon, the Company’s agent, + who had the Post, was keen to know why Gaspard the pilot lived at Belle + Amour. No white man sojourned near him, and he saw no one save now and + then a priest who travelled silently among the Indians, or some fisherman, + hunter, or woodsman, who, for pleasure or from pure adventure, ran into + the bay and tasted the hospitality tucked away on a ledge of the Cliff of + the King. + </p> + <p> + To Kenyon, Gaspard was unresponsive, however adroit the catechism. Father + Corraine also, who sometimes stepped across the dark threshold of + Gaspard’s hut, would have, for the man’s soul’s sake, dug out the heart of + his secret; but Gaspard, open with food, fire, blanket, and tireless + attendance, closed like the doors of a dungeon when the priest would have + read him. At the name of good Ste. Anne he would make the sacred gesture, + and would take a blessing when the priest passed from his hut to go again + into the wilds; but when pressed to disclose his mind and history, he + would always say: “M’sieu’, I have nothing to confess.” After a number of + years the priest ceased to ask him, and he remained with the secret of his + life, inscrutable and silent. + </p> + <p> + Being vigilant, one would have seen, however, that he lived in some land + of memory or anticipation, beyond his life of daily toil and usual + dealing. The hut seemed to have been built at a point where east and west + and south the great gulf could be seen and watched. It seemed almost + ludicrous that a man should call himself a pilot on a coast and at a bay + where a pilot was scarce needed once a year. But he was known as Gaspard + the pilot, and on those rare occasions when a vessel did anchor in the + bay, he performed his duties with such a certainty as to leave unguessed + how many deathtraps crouched near that shore. At such times, however, + Gaspard seemed to look twenty years younger. A light would come into his + face, a stalwart kind of pride sit on him, though beneath there lurked a + strange, sardonic look in his deep eyes—such a grim furtiveness as + though he should say: “If I but twist my finger we are all for the + fishes.” But he kept his secret and waited. He never seemed to tire of + looking down the gulf, as though expecting some ship. If one appeared and + passed on, he merely nodded his head, hung up his glass, returned to his + work, or, sitting by the door, talked to himself in low, strange tones. If + one came near, making as if it would enter the bay, a hungry joy possessed + him. If a storm was on, the joy was the greater. No pilot ever ventured to + a ship on such rough seas as Gaspard ventured for small profit or glory. + </p> + <p> + Behind it all lay his secret. There came one day a man who discovered it. + </p> + <p> + It was Pierre, the half-breed adventurer. There was no point in all the + wild northland which Pierre had not touched. He loved it as he loved the + game of life. He never said so of it, but he never said so of the game of + life, and he played it with a deep subterranean joy. He had had his way + with the musk-ox in the Arctic Circle; with the white bear at the foot of + Alaskan Hills; with the seal in Baffin’s Bay; with the puma on the slope + of the Pacific; and now at last he had come upon the trail of Labrador. + Its sternness, its moodiness pleased him. He smiled at it the + comprehending smile of the man who has fingered the nerves and the heart + of men and things. As a traveller, wandering through a prison, looks upon + its grim cells and dungeons with the eye of unembarrassed freedom, finding + no direful significance in the clank of its iron, so Pierre travelled down + with a handful of Indians through the hard fastnesses of that country, + and, at last, alone, came upon the bay of Belle Amour. + </p> + <p> + There was in him some antique touch of refinement and temperament which, + in all his evil days and deeds and moments of shy nobility, could find its + way into the souls of men with whom the world had had an awkward hour. He + was a man of little speech, but he had that rare persuasive penetration + which unlocked the doors of trouble, despair, and tragedy. Men who would + never have confessed to a priest confessed to him. In his every fibre was + the granite of the Indian nature, which looked upon punishment with stoic + satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + In the heart of Labrador he had heard of Gaspard, and had travelled to + that point in the compass where he could find him. One day when the sun + was fighting hard to make a pathway of light in front of Gaspard’s hut, + Pierre rounded a corner of the cliff and fronted Gaspard as he sat there, + his eyes idling gloomily with the sea. They said little to each other—in + new lands hospitality has not need of speech. When Gaspard and Pierre + looked each other in the eyes they knew that one word between them was as + a hundred with other men. The heart knows its confessor, and the confessor + knows the shadowed eye that broods upon some ghostly secret; and when + these are face to face there comes a merciless concision of understanding. + </p> + <p> + “From where away?” said Gaspard, as he handed some tobacco to Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “From Hudson’s Bay, down the Red Wolf Plains, along the hills, across the + coast country, here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” Gaspard eyed Pierre’s small kit with curiosity; then flung up a + piercing, furtive look. Pierre shrugged his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Adventure, adventure,” he answered. “The land”—he pointed north, + west, and east—“is all mine. I am the citizen of every village and + every camp of the great north.” + </p> + <p> + The old man turned his head towards a spot up the shore of Belle Amour, + before he turned to Pierre again, with a strange look, and said: “Where do + you go?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre followed his gaze to that point in the shore, felt the undercurrent + of vague meaning in his voice, guessed what was his cue, and said: + “Somewhere, sometime; but now only Belle Amour. I have had a long travel. + I have found an open door. I will stay—if you please—hein? If + you please?” + </p> + <p> + Gaspard brooded. “It is lonely,” he replied. “This day it is all bright; + the sun shines and the little gay waves crinkle to the shore. But, mon + Dieu! sometimes it is all black and ugly with storm. The waves come + grinding, booming in along the gridiron rocks”—he smiled a grim + smile—“break through the teeth of the reefs, and split with a roar + of hell upon the cliff. And all the time, and all the time,”—his + voice got low with a kind of devilish joy,—“there is a finger—Jesu! + you should see that finger of the devil stretch up from the bowels of the + earth, waiting, waiting for something to come out of the storm. And then—and + then you can hear a wild laugh come out of the land, come up from the sea, + come down from the sky—all waiting, waiting for something! No, no, + you would not stay here.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked again to that point in the shore towards which Gaspard’s + eyes had been cast. The sun was shining hard just then, and the stern, + sharp rocks, tumbling awkwardly back into the waste behind, had an + insolent harshness. Day perched garishly there. Yet now and then the + staring light was broken by sudden and deep shadows—great fissures + in the rocks and lanes between. These gave Pierre a suggestion, though + why, he could not say. He knew that when men live lives of patient, gloomy + vigilance, they generally have something to watch and guard. Why should + Gaspard remain here year after year? His occupation was nominally a pilot + in a bay rarely touched by vessels, and then only for shelter. A pilot + need not take his daily life with such brooding seriousness. In body he + was like flexible metal, all cord and muscle. He gave the impression of + bigness, though he was small in stature. Yet, as Pierre studied him, he + saw something that made him guess the man had had about him one day a + woman, perhaps a child; no man could carry that look unless. If a woman + has looked at you from day to day, something of her, some reflection of + her face, passes to yours and stays there; and if a child has held your + hand long, or hung about your knees, it gives you a kind of gentle + wariness as you step about your home. + </p> + <p> + Pierre knew that a man will cherish with a deep, eternal purpose a memory + of a woman or a child, when, no matter how compelling his cue to remember + where a man is concerned, he will yield it up in the end to time. Certain + speculations arranged themselves definitely in Pierre’s mind: there was a + woman, maybe a child once; there was some sorrowful mystery about them; + there was a point in the shore that had held the old man’s eyes strangely; + there was the bay with that fantastic “finger of the devil” stretching up + from the bowels of the world. Behind the symbol lay the Thing what was it? + </p> + <p> + Long time he looked out upon the gulf, then his eyes drew into the bay and + stayed there, seeing mechanically, as a hundred fancies went through his + mind. There were reefs of which the old man had spoken. He could guess + from the colour and movement of the water where they were. The finger of + the devil—was it not real? A finger of rock, waiting as the old man + said—for what? + </p> + <p> + Gaspard touched his shoulder. He rose and went with him into the gloomy + cabin. They ate and drank in silence. When the meal was finished they sat + smoking till night fell. Then the pilot lit a fire, and drew his rough + chair to the door. Though it was only late summer, it was cold in the + shade of the cliff. Long time they sat. Now and again Pierre intercepted + the quick, elusive glance of his silent host. Once the pilot took the pipe + from his mouth, and leaned his hands on his knees as if about to speak. + But he did not. + </p> + <p> + Pierre saw that the time was ripe for speech. So he said, as though he + knew something: “It is a long time since it happened?” + </p> + <p> + Gaspard, brooding, answered: “Yes, a long time—too long.” Then, as + if suddenly awakened to the strangeness of the question, he added, in a + startled way: “What do you know? Tell me quick what you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing except what comes to me here, pilot,”—Pierre touched + his forehead, “but there is a thing—I am not sure what. There was a + woman—perhaps a child; there is something on the shore; there is a + hidden point of rock in the bay; and you are waiting for a ship—for + the ship, and it does not come—isn’t that so?” + </p> + <p> + Gaspard got to his feet, and peered into Pierre’s immobile face. Their + eyes met. + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu!” said the pilot, his hand catching the smoke away from between + them, “you are a droll man; you have a wonderful mind. You are cold like + ice, and still there is in you a look of fire.” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” answered Pierre quietly, “and tell me all. Perhaps I could + think it out little by little; but it might take too long—and what + is the good?” + </p> + <p> + Slowly Gaspard obeyed. Both hands rested on his knees, and he stared + abstractedly into the fire. Pierre thrust forward the tobacco-bag. His + hand lifted, took the tobacco, and then his eyes came keenly to Pierre’s. + He was about to speak.... “Fill your pipe first,” said the half-breed + coolly. The old man did so abstractedly. When the pipe was lighted, Pierre + said: “Now!” + </p> + <p> + “I have never told the story, never—not even to Pere Corraine. But I + know, I have it here”—he put his hand to his forehead, as did Pierre—“that + you will be silent.” Pierre nodded. + </p> + <p> + “She was fine to see. Her eyes were black as beads; and when she laugh it + was all music. I was so happy! We lived on the island of the Aux Coudres, + far up there at Quebec. It was a wild place. There were smugglers and + others there—maybe pirates. But she was like a saint of God among + all. I was lucky man. I was pilot, and took ships out to sea, and brought + them in safe up the gulf. It is not all easy, for there are mad places. + Once or twice when a wild storm was on I could not land at Cap Martin, and + was carried out to sea and over to France.... Well, that was not so bad; + there was plenty to eat and drink, nothing to do. But when I marry it was + differen’. I was afraid of being carried away and leave my wife—the + belle Mamette—alone long time. You see, I was young, and she was + ver’ beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + He paused and caught his hand over his mouth as though to stop a sound: + the lines of his face deepened. Presently he puffed his pipe so hard that + the smoke and the sparks hid him in a cloud through which he spoke. “When + the child was born—Holy Mother! have you ever felt the hand of your + own child in yours, and looked at the mother, as she lies there all pale + and shining between the quilts?” + </p> + <p> + He paused. Pierre’s eyes dropped to the floor. Gaspard continued: “Well, + it is a great thing, and the babe was born quick one day when we were all + alone. A thing like that gives you wonder. Then I could not bear to go + away with the ships, and at last I said: ‘One month, and then the ice + fills the gulf, and there will be no more ships for the winter. That will + be the last for me. I will be pilot no more-no.’ She was ver’ happy, and a + laugh ran over her little white teeth. Mon Dieu, I stop that laugh pretty + quick—in fine way!” + </p> + <p> + He seemed for an instant to forget his great trouble, and his face went to + warm sunshine like a boy’s; but it was as sun playing on a scarred + fortress. Presently the light faded out of his face and left it like iron + smouldering from the bellows. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “you see there was a ship to go almost the last of the + season, and I said to my wife, ‘Mamette, it is the last time I shall be + pilot. You must come with me and bring the child, and they will put us off + at Father Point, and then we will come back slow to the village on the + good Ste. Anne and live there ver’ quiet.’ When I say that to her she + laugh back at me and say, ‘Beau! beau!’ and she laugh in the child’s eyes, + and speak—nom de Dieu! she speak so gentle and light—and say + to the child: ‘Would you like go with your father a pretty journey down + the gulf?’ And the little child laugh back at her, and shake its soft + brown hair over its head. They were both so glad to go. I went to the + captain of the ship. I say to him, ‘I will take my wife and my little + child, and when we come to Father Point we will go ashore.’ Bien, the + captain laugh big, and it was all right. That was long time ago—long + time.” + </p> + <p> + He paused again, threw his head back with a despairing toss, his chin + dropped on his breast, his hands clasped between his knees, and his pipe, + laid beside him on the bench, was forgotten. + </p> + <p> + Pierre quietly put some wood upon the fire, opened his kit, drew out from + it a little flask of rum and laid it upon the bench beside the pipe. A + long time passed. At last Gaspard roused himself with a long sigh, turned + and picked up the pipe, but, seeing the flask of rum, lifted it, and took + one long swallow before he began to fill and light his pipe. There came + into his voice something of iron hardness as he continued his story. + </p> + <p> + “Alors, we went into the boat. As we travelled down the gulf a great storm + came out of the north. We thought it would pass, but it stayed on. When we + got to the last place where the pilot could land, the waves were running + like hills to the shore, and no boat could live between the ship and the + point. For myself, it was nothing—I am a strong man and a great + swimmer. But when a man has a wife and a child, it is differen’. So the + ship went on out into the ocean with us. Well, we laugh a little, and + think what a great brain I had when I say to my wife: ‘Come and bring the + child for the last voyage of Gaspard the pilot.’ You see, there we were on + board the ship, everything ver’ good, plenty to eat, much to drink, to + smoke, all the time. The sailors, they were ver’ funny, and to see them + take my child, my little Babette, and play with her as she roll on the + deck—merci, it was gran’! So I say to my wife: + </p> + <p> + “‘This will be bon voyage for all.’ But a woman, she has not the mind like + a man. When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil, a woman + laugh too, but there come a little quick sob to her lips. You ask her why, + and she cannot tell. She know that something will happen. A man has great + idee, a woman great sight. So my wife, she turn her face away all sad from + me then, and she was right—she was right! + </p> + <p> + “One day in the ocean we pass a ship—only two days out. The ship + signal us. I say to my wife: ‘Ha, ha! now we can go back, maybe, to the + good Ste. Anne.’ Well, the ships come close together, and the captain of + the other ship he have something importan’ with ours. He ask if there will + be chance of pilot into the gulf, because it is the first time that he + visit Quebec. The captain swing round and call to me. I go up. I bring my + wife and my little Babette; and that was how we sail back to the great + gulf. + </p> + <p> + “When my wife step on board that ship I see her face get pale, and + something strange in her eyes. I ask her why; she do not know, but she hug + Babette close to her breast with a kind of fear. A long, low, black ship, + it could run through every sea. Soon the captain come to me and say: ‘You + know the coast, the north coast of the gulf, from Labrador to Quebec?’ I + tell him yes. ‘Well,’ he say, ‘do you know of a bay where few ships enter + safe?’ I think a moment and I tell him of Belle Amour. Then he say, ver’ + quick: ‘That is the place; we will go to the bay of Belle Amour.’ He was + ver’ kind to my face; he give my wife and child good berth, plenty to eat + and drink, and once more I laugh; but my wife—there was in her face + something I not understan’. It is not easy to understan’ a woman. We got + to the bay. I had pride: I was young. I was the best pilot in the St. + Lawrence, and I took in the ship between the reefs of the bay, where they + run like a gridiron, and I laugh when I swing the ship all ver’ quick to + the right, after we pass the reefs, and make a curve round—something. + The captain pull me up and ask why. But I never tell him that. I not know + why I never tell him. But the good God put the thought into my head, and I + keep it to this hour, and it never leave me, never—never!” + </p> + <p> + He slowly rubbed his hands up and down his knees, took another sip of rum, + and went on: + </p> + <p> + “I brought the ship close up to the shore, and we go to anchor. All that + night I see the light of a fire on the shore. So I slide down and swim to + the shore. Under a little arch of rocks something was going on. I could + not tell, but I know from the sound that they are to bury something. Then, + all at once, it come to me—this is a pirate ship! I come closer and + closer to the light, and then I see a dreadful thing. There was the + captain and the mate, and another. They turn quick upon two other men—two + sailors—and kill them. Then they take the bodies and wound them + round some casks in a great hole, and cover it all up. I understan’. It is + the old legend that a dead body will keep gold all to itself, so that no + one shall find it. Mon Dieu!”—his voice dropped low and shook in his + throat—“I give one little cry at the sight, and then they see me. + There were three. They were armed; they sprang upon me and tied me. Then + they fling me beside the fire, and they cover up the hole with the gold + and the bodies. + </p> + <p> + “When that was done they take me back to the ship, then with pistols at my + head they make me pilot the ship out into the bay again. As we went they + make a chart of the place. We travel along the coast for one day; and then + a great storm of snow come, and the captain say to me: ‘Steer us into + harbour.’ When we are at anchor, they take me and my wife, and little + child and put us ashore alone, with a storm and the bare rocks and the + dreadful night, and leave us there, that we shall never tell the secret of + the gold. That night my wife and my child die in the snow.” + </p> + <p> + Here his voice became strained and slow. “After a long time I work my way + to an Injin camp. For months I was a child in strength, all my flesh gone. + When the spring come I went and dug a deeper grave for my wife, and p’tite + Babette, and leave them there, where they had died. But I come to the bay + of Belle Amour, because I knew some day the man with the devil’s heart + would come back for his gold, and then would arrive my time—the hour + of God!” + </p> + <p> + He paused. “The hour of God,” he repeated slowly. “I have waited twenty + years, but he has not come; yet I know that he will come. I feel it here”—he + touched his forehead; “I know it here”—he tapped his heart. “Once + where my heart was, there is only one thing, and it is hate, and I know—I + know—that he will come. And when he comes—” He raised his arm + high above his head, laughed wildly, paused, let the hand drop, and then + fell to staring into the fire. + </p> + <p> + Pierre again placed the flask of rum between his fingers. But Gaspard put + it down, caught his arms together across his breast, and never turned his + face from the fire. Midnight came, and still they sat there silent. No man + had a greater gift in waiting than Pierre. Many a time his life had been a + swivel, upon which the comedies and tragedies of others had turned. He + neither loved nor feared men: sometimes he pitied them. He pitied Gaspard. + He knew what it is to have the heartstrings stretched out, one by one, by + the hand of a Gorgon, while the feet are chained to the rocking world. + </p> + <p> + Not till the darkest hour of the morning did the two leave their silent + watch and go to bed. The sun had crept stealthily to the door of the but + before they rose again. Pierre laid his hand upon Gaspard’s shoulder as + they travelled out into the morning, and said: “My friend, I understand. + Your secret is safe with me; you shall take me to the place where the gold + is buried, but it shall wait there until the time is ripe. What is gold to + me? Nothing. To find gold—that is the trick of any fool. To win it + or to earn it is the only game. Let the bodies rot about the gold. You and + I will wait. I have many friends in the northland, but there is no face in + any tent door looking for me. You are alone: well, I will stay with you. + Who can tell—perhaps it is near at hand—the hour of God!” + </p> + <p> + The huge hard hand of Gaspard swallowed the small hand of Pierre, and, in + a voice scarcely above a whisper, he answered: “You shall be my comrade. I + have told you all, as I have never told it to my God. I do not fear you + about the gold—it is all cursed. You are not like other men; I will + trust you. Some time you also have had the throat of a man in your + fingers, and watched the life spring out of his eyes, and leave them all + empty. When men feel like that, what is gold—what is anything! There + is food in the bay and on the hills. + </p> + <p> + “We will live together, you and I. Come and I will show you the place of + hell.” + </p> + <p> + Together they journeyed down the crag and along the beach to the place + where the gold, the grim god of this world, was fortressed and bastioned + by its victims. + </p> + <p> + The days went on; the weeks and months ambled by. Still the two lived + together. Little speech passed between them, save that speech of comrades, + who use more the sign than the tongue. It seemed to Pierre after a time + that Gaspard’s wrongs were almost his own. Yet with this difference: he + must stand by and let the avenger be the executioner; he must be the + spectator merely. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he went inland and brought back moose, caribou, and the skins of + other animals, thus assisting Gaspard in his dealings with the great + Company. But again there were days when he did nothing but lie on the + skins at the hut’s door, or saunter in the shadows and the sunlight. Not + since he had come to Gaspard had a ship passed the bay or sought to anchor + in it. + </p> + <p> + But there came a day. It was the early summer. The snow had shrunk from + the ardent sun, and had swilled away to the gulf, leaving the tender grass + showing. The moss on the rocks had changed from brown to green, and the + vagrant birds had fluttered back from the south. The winter’s furs had + been carried away in the early spring to the Company’s post, by a + detachment of coureurs de bois. There was little left to do. This morning + they sat in the sun looking out upon the gulf. Presently Gaspard rose and + went into the hut. Pierre’s eyes still lazily scanned the water. As he + looked he saw a vessel rounding a point in the distance. Suppose this was + the ship of the pirate and murderer? The fancy diverted him. His eyes drew + away from the indistinct craft—first to the reefs, and then to that + spot where the colossal needle stretched up under the water. It was as + Pierre speculated. Brigond, the French pirate, who had hidden his gold at + such shameless cost, was, after twenty years in the galleys at Toulon, + come back to find his treasure. He had doubted little that he would find + it. The lonely spot, the superstition concerning dead bodies, the supposed + doom of Gaspard, all ran in his favour. His little craft came on, manned + by as vile a mob as ever mutinied or built a wrecker’s fire. + </p> + <p> + When the ship got within a short distance of the bay, Pierre rose and + called. Gaspard came to the door. “There’s work to do, pilot,” he said. + Gaspard felt the thrill of his voice, and flashed a look out to the gulf. + He raised his hands with a gasp. “I feel it,” he said: “it is the hour of + God!” + </p> + <p> + He started to the rope ladder of the cliff, then wheeled suddenly and came + back to Pierre. “You must not come,” he said. “Stay here and watch; you + shall see great things.” His voice had a round, deep tone. He caught both + Pierre’s hands in his and added: “It is for my wife and child; I have no + fear. Adieu, my friend! When you see the good Pere Corraine say to him—but + no, it is no matter—there is One greater!” + </p> + <p> + Once again he caught Pierre hard by the shoulder, then ran to the cliff + and swung down the ladder. All at once there shot through Pierre’s body an + impulse, and his eyes lighted with excitement. He sprang towards the + cliff. “Gaspard, come back!” he called; then paused, and, with an + enigmatical smile, shrugged his shoulders, drew back, and waited. + </p> + <p> + The vessel was hove to outside the bay, as if hesitating. Brigond was + considering whether it were better, with his scant chart, to attempt the + bay, or to take small boats and make for the shore. He remembered the + reefs, but he did not know of the needle of rock. Presently he saw + Gaspard’s boat coming. “Someone who knows the bay,” he said; “I see a hut + on the cliff.” + </p> + <p> + “Hello, who are you?” Brigond called down as Gaspard drew alongside. + </p> + <p> + “A Hudson’s Bay Company’s man,” answered Gaspard. + </p> + <p> + “How many are there of you?” + </p> + <p> + “Myself alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you pilot us in?” + </p> + <p> + “I know the way.” + </p> + <p> + “Come up.” + </p> + <p> + Gaspard remembered Brigond, and he veiled his eyes lest the hate he felt + should reveal him. No one could have recognised him as the young pilot of + twenty years before. Then his face was cheerful and bright, and in his eye + was the fire of youth. Now a thick beard and furrowing lines hid all the + look of the past. His voice, too, was desolate and distant. + </p> + <p> + Brigond clapped him on the shoulder. “How long have you lived off there?” + he asked, as he jerked his finger towards the shore. + </p> + <p> + “A good many years.” + </p> + <p> + “Did anything strange ever happen there?” Gaspard felt his heart contract + again, as it did when Brigond’s hand touched his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing strange is known.” + </p> + <p> + A vicious joy came into Brigond’s face. His fingers opened and shut. + “Safe, by the holy heaven!” he grunted. + </p> + <p> + “‘By the holy heaven!’” repeated Gaspard, under his breath. + </p> + <p> + They walked forward. Almost as they did so there came a big puff of wind + across the bay: one of those sudden currents that run in from the ocean + and the gulf stream. Gaspard saw, and smiled. In a moment the vessel’s + nose was towards the bay, and she sailed in, dipping a shoulder to the + sudden foam. On she came past reef and bar, a pretty tumbril to the + slaughter. The spray feathered up to her sails, the sun caught her on deck + and beam; she was running dead for the needle of rock. + </p> + <p> + Brigond stood at Gaspard’s side. All at once Gaspard made the sacred + gesture and said, in a low tone, as if only to himself: “Pardon, mon + capitaine, mon Jesu!” Then he turned triumphantly, fiercely, upon Brigond. + The pirate was startled. “What’s the matter?” he said. + </p> + <p> + Not Gaspard, but the needle rock replied. There was a sudden shock; the + vessel stood still and shivered; lurched, swung shoulder downwards, reeled + and struggled. Instantly she began to sink. + </p> + <p> + “The boats! lower the boats!” cried Brigond. “This cursed fool has run us + on a rock!” + </p> + <p> + The waves, running high, now swept over the deck. Brigond started aft, but + Gaspard sprang before him. “Stand back!” he called. “Where you are you + die!” + </p> + <p> + Brigond, wild with terror and rage, ran at him. Gaspard caught him as he + came. With vast strength he lifted him and dashed him to the deck. “Die + there, murderer!” he cried. + </p> + <p> + Brigond crouched upon the deck, looking at him with fearful eyes. “Who-are + you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I am Gaspard the pilot. I have waited for you twenty years. Up there, in + the snow, my wife and child died. Here, in this bay, you die.” + </p> + <p> + There was noise and racketing behind them, but they two heard nothing. The + one was alone with his terror, the other with his soul. Once, twice, + thrice, the vessel heaved, then went suddenly still. + </p> + <p> + Gaspard understood. One look at his victim, then he made the sacred + gesture again, and folded his arms. Pierre, from the height of the cliff, + looking down, saw the vessel dip at the bow, and then the waters divided + and swallowed it up. + </p> + <p> + “Gaspard should have lived,” he said. “But—who can tell! Perhaps + Mamette was waiting for him.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CRUISE OF THE “NINETY-NINE” + </h2> + <h3> + I. THE SEARCH + </h3> + <p> + She was only a big gulf yawl, which a man and a boy could manage at a + pinch, with old-fashioned high bulwarks, but lying clean in the water. She + had a tolerable record for speed, and for other things so important that + they were now and again considered by the Government at Quebec. She was + called the Ninety-Nine. With a sense of humour the cure had called her so, + after an interview with her owner and captain, Tarboe the smuggler. When + he said to Tarboe at Angel Point that he had come to seek the one sheep + that was lost, leaving behind him the other ninety-and-nine within the + fold at Isle of Days, Tarboe had replied that it was a mistake—he + was the ninety-nine, for he needed no repentance, and immediately offered + the cure some old brown brandy of fine flavour. They both had a whimsical + turn, and the cure did not ask Tarboe how he came by such perfect liquor. + Many high in authority, it was said, had been soothed even to the winking + of an eye when they ought to have sent a Nordenfeldt against the + Ninety-Nine. + </p> + <p> + The day after the cure left Angel Point he spoke of Tarboe and his craft + as the Ninety-and-Nine; and Tarboe hearing of this—for somehow he + heard everything—immediately painted out the old name, and called + her the Ninety-Nine, saying that she had been so blessed by the cure. + Afterwards the Ninety-Nine had an increasing reputation for exploit and + daring. In brief, Tarboe and his craft were smugglers, and to have trusted + gossip would have been to say that the boat was as guilty as the man. + </p> + <p> + Their names were much more notorious than sweet; and yet in Quebec men + laughed as they shrugged their shoulders at them; for as many jovial + things as evil were told of Tarboe. When it became known that a dignitary + of the Church had been given a case of splendid wine, which had come in a + roundabout way to him, men waked in the night and laughed, to the + annoyance of their wives; for the same dignitary had preached a powerful + sermon against smugglers and the receivers of stolen goods. It was a sad + thing for monsignor to be called a Ninety-Niner, as were all good friends + of Tarboe, high and low. But when he came to know, after the wine had been + leisurely drunk and becomingly praised, he brought his influence to bear + in civic places, so that there was nothing left to do but to corner Tarboe + at last. + </p> + <p> + It was in the height of summer, when there was little to think of in the + old fortressed city, and a dart after a brigand appealed to the romantic + natures of the idle French folk, common and gentle. + </p> + <p> + Through clouds of rank tobacco smoke, and in the wash of their bean soup, + the habitants discussed the fate of “Black Tarboe,” and officers of the + garrison and idle ladies gossiped at the Citadel and at Murray Bay of the + freebooting gentlemen, whose Ninety-Nine had furnished forth many a table + in the great walled city. But Black Tarboe himself was down at Anticosti, + waiting for a certain merchantman. Passing vessels saw the Ninety-Nine + anchored in an open bay, flying its flag flippantly before the world—a + rag of black sheepskin, with the wool on, in profane keeping with its + name. + </p> + <p> + There was no attempt at hiding, no skulking behind a point, or scurrying + from observation, but an indolent and insolent waiting—for + something. “Black Tarboe’s getting reckless,” said one captain coming in, + and another, going out, grinned as he remembered the talk at Quebec, and + thought of the sport provided for the Ninety-Nine when she should come up + stream; as she must in due time, for Tarboe’s home was on the Isle of + Days, and was he not fond and proud of his daughter Joan to a point of + folly? He was not alone in his admiration of Joan, for the cure at Isle of + Days said high things of her. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps this was because she was unlike most other girls, and women too, + in that she had a sense of humour, got from having mixed with choice + spirits who visited her father and carried out at Angel Point a kind of + freemasonry, which had few rites and many charges and countercharges. She + had that almost impossible gift in a woman—the power of telling a + tale whimsically. It was said that once, when Orvay Lafarge, a new + Inspector of Customs, came to spy out the land, she kept him so amused by + her quaint wit, that he sat in the doorway gossiping with her, while + Tarboe and two others unloaded and safely hid away a cargo of liquors from + the Ninety-Nine. And one of the men, as cheerful as Joan herself, + undertook to carry a little keg of brandy into the house, under the very + nose of the young inspector, who had sought to mark his appointment by the + detection and arrest of Tarboe single-handed. He had never met Tarboe or + Tarboe’s daughter when he made his boast. If his superiors had known that + Loco Bissonnette, Tarboe’s jovial lieutenant, had carried the keg of + brandy into the house in a water-pail, not fifteen feet from where Lafarge + sat with Joan, they might have asked for his resignation. True, the thing + was cleverly done, for Bissonnette made the water spill quite naturally + against his leg, and when he turned to Joan and said in a crusty way that + he didn’t care if he spilled all the water in the pail, he looked so like + an unwilling water-carrier that Joan for one little moment did not guess. + When she understood, she laughed till the tears came to her eyes, and + presently, because Lafarge seemed hurt, gave him to understand that he was + upon his honour if she told him what it was. He consenting, she, still + laughing, asked him into the house, and then drew the keg from the pail, + before his eyes, and, tapping it, gave him some liquor, which he accepted + without churlishness. He found nothing in this to lessen her in his eyes, + for he knew that women have no civic virtues. He drank to their better + acquaintance with few compunctions; a matter not scandalous, for there is + nothing like a witty woman to turn a man’s head, and there was not so much + at stake after all. Tarboe had gone on for many a year till his trade + seemed like the romance of law rather than its breach. It is safe to say + that Lafarge was a less sincere if not a less blameless customs officer + from this time forth. For humour on a woman’s lips is a potent thing, as + any man knows that has kissed it off in laughter. + </p> + <p> + As we said, Tarboe lay rocking in a bight at Anticosti, with an empty hold + and a scanty larder. Still, he was in no ill-humour, for he smoked much + and talked more than common. Perhaps that was because Joan was with him—an + unusual thing. She was as good a sailor as her father, but she did not + care, nor did he, to have her mixed up with him in his smuggling. So far + as she knew, she had never been on board the Ninety-Nine when it carried a + smuggled cargo. She had not broken the letter of the law. Her father, on + asking her to come on this cruise, had said that it was a pleasure trip to + meet a vessel in the gulf. + </p> + <p> + The pleasure had not been remarkable, though there had been no bad + weather. The coast of Anticosti is cheerless, and it is possible even to + tire of sun and water. True, Bissonnette played the concertina with + passing sweetness, and sang as little like a wicked smuggler as one might + think. But there were boundaries even to that, as there were to his + love-making, which was, however, so interwoven with laughter that it was + impossible to think the matter serious. Sometimes of an evening Joan + danced on deck to the music of the concertina—dances which had their + origin largely with herself fantastic, touched off with some unexpected + sleight of foot—almost uncanny at times to Bissonnette, whose + temperament could hardly go her distance when her mood was as this. + </p> + <p> + Tarboe looked on with a keener eye and understanding, for was she not bone + of his bone and flesh of his flesh? Who was he that he should fail to know + her? He saw the moonlight play on her face and hair, and he waved his head + with the swaying of her body, and smacked his lips in thought of the + fortune which, smuggling days over, would carry them up to St. Louis + Street, Quebec, there to dwell as in a garden of good things. + </p> + <p> + After many days had passed, Joan tired of the concertina, of her own + dancing, of her father’s tales, and became inquisitive. So at last she + said: + </p> + <p> + “Father, what’s all this for?” + </p> + <p> + Tarboe did not answer her at once, but, turning to Bissonnette, asked him + to play “The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose.” It was a gay little + demoiselle according to Bissonnette, and through the creaking, windy + gaiety Tarboe and his daughter could talk without being heard by the + musician. Tarboe lit another cigar—that badge of greatness in the + eyes of his fellow-habitants, and said: + </p> + <p> + “What’s all this for, Joan? Why, we’re here for our health.” His teeth bit + on the cigar with enjoyable emphasis. + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t tell me what’s in the wind, you’ll be sorry. Come, where’s + the good? I’ve got as much head as you have, father, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu! Much more. That’s not the question. It was to be a surprise to + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! You can only have one minute of surprise, and you can have months + of fun looking out for a thing. I don’t want surprises; I want what you’ve + got—the thing that’s kept you good-tempered while we lie here like + snails on the rocks.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my cricket, if that’s the way you feel, here you are. It is a long + story, but I will make it short. Once there was a pirate called Brigond, + and he brought into a bay on the coast of Labrador a fortune in some kegs—gold, + gold! He hid it in a cave, wrapping around it the dead bodies of two men. + It is thought that one can never find it so. He hid it, and sailed away. + He was captured, and sent to prison in France for twenty years. Then he + come back with a crew and another ship, and sailed into the bay, but his + ship went down within sight of the place. And so the end of him and all. + But wait. There was one man, the mate on the first voyage. He had been put + in prison also. He did not get away as soon as Brigond. When he was free, + he come to the captain of a ship that I know, the Free-and-Easy, that + sails to Havre, and told him the story, asking for passage to Quebec. The + captain—Gobal—did not believe it, but said he would bring him + over on the next voyage. Gobal come to me and told me all there was to + tell. I said that it was a true story, for Pretty Pierre told me once he + saw Brigond’s ship go down in the bay; but he would not say how, or why, + or where. Pierre would not lie in a thing like that, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t he get the gold himself?” + </p> + <p> + “What is money to him? He is as a gipsy. To him the money is cursed. He + said so. Eh bien! some wise men are fools, one way or another. Well, I + told Gobal I would give the man the Ninety-Nine for the cruise and search, + and that we should divide the gold between us, if it was found, taking out + first enough to make a dot for you and a fine handful for Bissonnette. But + no, shake not your head like that. It shall be so. Away went Gobal four + months ago, and I get a letter from him weeks past, just after Pentecost, + to say he would be here some time in the first of July, with the man. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it is a great game. The man is a pirate, but it does not matter—he + has paid for that. I thought you would be glad of a fine adventure like + that, so I said to you, Come.” + </p> + <p> + “But, father—” + </p> + <p> + “If you do not like you can go on with Gobal in the Free-and-Easy, and you + shall be landed at the Isle of Days. That’s all. We’re waiting here for + Gobal. He promised to stop just outside this bay and land our man on us. + Then, blood of my heart, away we go after the treasure!” + </p> + <p> + Joan’s eyes flashed. Adventure was in her as deep as life itself. She had + been cradled in it, reared in it, lived with it, and here was no + law-breaking. Whose money was it? No one’s: for who should say what ship + it was, or what people were robbed by Brigond and those others? Gold—that + was a better game than wine and brandy, and for once her father would be + on a cruise which would not be, as it were, sailing in forbidden waters. + </p> + <p> + “When do you expect Gobal?” she asked eagerly. “He ought to have been here + a week ago. Maybe he has had a bad voyage, or something.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s sure to come?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I found out about that. She’s got a big consignment to people + in Quebec. Something has gone wrong, but she’ll be here—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What will you do if you get the money?” she asked. Tarboe laughed + heartily. “My faith! Come play up those scarlet hose, Bissonnette! My + faith, I’ll go into Parliament at Quebec. Thunder! I will have sport with + them. I’ll reform the customs. There shan’t be any more smuggling. The + people of Quebec shall drink no more good wine—no one except Black + Tarboe, the member for Isle of Days.” + </p> + <p> + Again he laughed, and his eyes spilt fire like revolving wheels. For a + moment Joan was quiet; her face was shining like the sun on a river. She + saw more than her father, for she saw release. A woman may stand by a man + who breaks the law, but in her heart she always has bitterness, for that + the world shall speak well of herself and what she loves is the secret + desire of every woman. In her heart she never can defy the world as does a + man. + </p> + <p> + She had carried off the situation as became the daughter of a daring + adventurer, who in more stirring times might have been a Du Lhut or a Rob + Roy, but she was sometimes tired of the fighting, sometimes wishful that + she could hold her position easier. Suppose the present good cure should + die and another less considerate arrive, how hard might her position + become! Then, she had a spirit above her station, as have most people who + know the world and have seen something of its forbidden side; for it is + notable that wisdom comes not alone from loving good things, but from + having seen evil as well as good. Besides Joan was not a woman to go + singly to her life’s end. + </p> + <p> + There was scarcely a man on Isle of Days and in the parish of Ste. Eunice, + on the mainland, but would gladly have taken to wife the daughter of + Tarboe the smuggler, and it is likely that the cure of either parish would + not have advised against it. + </p> + <p> + Joan had had the taste of the lawless, and now she knew, as she sat and + listened to Bissonnette’s music, that she also could dance for joy, in the + hope of a taste of the lawful. With this money, if it were got, there + could be another life—in Quebec. She could not forbear laughing now + as she remembered that first day she had seen Orvay Lafarge, and she said + to Bissonnette: “Loce, do you mind the keg in the water-pail?” Bissonnette + paused on an out-pull, and threw back his head with a soundless laugh, + then played the concertina into contortions. + </p> + <p> + “That Lafarge! H’m! He is very polite; but pshaw, it is no use that, in + whisky-running! To beat a great man, a man must be great. Tarboe Noir can + lead M’sieu’ Lafarge all like that!” + </p> + <p> + It seemed as if he were pulling the nose of the concertina. Tarboe began + tracing a kind of maze with his fingers on the deck, his eyes rolling + outward like an endless puzzle. But presently he turned sharp on Joan. + </p> + <p> + “How many times have you met him?” he asked. “Oh, six or seven—eight + or nine, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + Her father stared. “Eight or nine? By the holy! Is it like that? Where + have you seen him?” + </p> + <p> + “Twice at our home, as you know; two or three times at dances at the Belle + Chatelaine, and the rest when we were at Quebec in May. He is amusing, + M’sieu’ Lafarge.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, two of a kind,” remarked Tarboe drily; and then he told his schemes + to Joan, letting Bissonnette hang up the “The Demoiselle with the Scarlet + Hose,” and begin “The Coming of the Gay Cavalier.” She entered into his + plans with spirit, and together they speculated what bay it might be, of + the many on the coast of Labrador. + </p> + <p> + They spent two days longer waiting, and then at dawn a merchantman came + sauntering up to anchor. She signalled to the Ninety-Nine. In five minutes + Tarboe was climbing up the side of the Free-and-Easy, and presently was in + Gobal’s cabin, with a glass of wine in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “What kept you, Gobal?” he asked. “You’re ten days late, at least.” + </p> + <p> + “Storm and sickness—broken mainmast and smallpox.” Gobal was not + cheerful. + </p> + <p> + Tarboe caught at something. “You’ve got our man?” Gobal drank off his wine + slowly. “Yes,” he said. “Well?—Why don’t you fetch him?” + </p> + <p> + “You can see him below.” + </p> + <p> + “The man has legs, let him walk here. Hello, my Gobal, what’s the matter? + If he’s here bring him up. We’ve no time to lose.” + </p> + <p> + “Tarboe, the fool got smallpox, and died three hours ago—the tenth + man since we started. We’re going to give him to the fishes. They’re + putting him in his linen now.” + </p> + <p> + Tarboe’s face hardened. Disaster did not dismay him, it either made him + ugly or humourous, and one phase was as dangerous as the other. + </p> + <p> + “D’ye mean to say,” he groaned, “that the game is up? Is it all finished? + Sweat o’ my soul, my skin crawls like hot glass! Is it the end, eh? The + beast, to die!” + </p> + <p> + Gobal’s eyes glistened. He had sent up the mercury, he would now bring it + down. + </p> + <p> + “Not such a beast as you think. Alive pirate, a convict, as comrade in + adventure, is not sugar in the teeth. This one was no better than the + worst. Well, he died. That was awkward. But he gave me the chart of the + bay before he died—and that was damn square.” + </p> + <p> + Tarboe held out his hand eagerly, the big fingers bending claw-like. + </p> + <p> + “Give it me, Gobal,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Wait. There’s no hurry. Come along, there’s the bell: they’re going to + drop him.” + </p> + <p> + He coolly motioned, and passed out from the cabin to the ship’s side. + Tarboe kept his tongue from blasphemy, and his hand from the captain’s + shoulder, for he knew only too well that Gobal held the game in his hands. + They leaned over and saw two sailors with something on a plank. + </p> + <p> + “We therefore commit his body to the deep, in the knowledge of the + Judgment Day—let her go!” grunted Gobal; and a long straight canvas + bundle shot with a swishing sound beneath the water. “It was rough on him + too,” he continued. “He waited twenty years to have his chance again. Damn + me, if I didn’t feel as if I’d hit him in the eye, somehow, when he begged + me to keep him alive long enough to have a look at the rhino. But it + wasn’t no use. He had to go, and I told him so. + </p> + <p> + “Then he did the fine thing: he give me the chart. But he made me swear on + a book of the Mass that if we got the gold we’d send one-half his share to + a woman in Paris, and the rest to his brother, a priest at Nancy. I’ll + keep my word—but yes! Eh, Tarboe?” + </p> + <p> + “You can keep your word for me! What, you think, Gobal, there is no honour + in Black Tarboe, and you’ve known me ten years! Haven’t I always kept my + word like a clock?” + </p> + <p> + Gobal stretched out his hand. “Like the sun-sure. That’s enough. We’ll + stand by my oath. You shall see the chart.” + </p> + <p> + Going again inside the cabin, Gobal took out a map grimed with ceaseless + fingering, and showed it to Tarboe, putting his finger on the spot where + the treasure lay. + </p> + <p> + “The Bay of Belle Amour!” cried Tarboe, his eyes flashing. “Ah, I know it! + That’s where Gaspard the pilot lived. It’s only forty leagues or so from + here.” His fingers ran here and there on the map. “Yes, yes,” he + continued, “it’s so, but he hasn’t placed the reef right. Ah, here is how + Brigond’s ship went down! There’s a needle of rock in the bay. It isn’t + here.” + </p> + <p> + Gobal handed the chart over. “I can’t go with you, but I take your word; I + can say no more. If you cheat me I’ll kill you; that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me give a bond,” said Tarboe quickly. “If I saw much gold perhaps I + couldn’t trust myself, but there’s someone to be trusted, who’ll swear for + me. If my daughter Joan give her word—” + </p> + <p> + “Is she with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in the Ninety-Nine, now. I’ll send Bissonnette for her. Yes, yes, + I’ll send, for gold is worse than bad whisky when it gets into a man’s + head. Joan will speak for me.” + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes later Joan was in Gobal’s cabin, guaranteeing for her father + the fulfilment of his bond. An hour afterwards the Free-and-Easy was + moving up stream with her splintered mast and ragged sails, and the + Ninety-Nine was looking up and over towards the Bay of Belle Amour. She + reached it in the late afternoon of the next day. Bissonnette did not know + the object of the expedition, but he had caught the spirit of the affair, + and his eyes were like spots of steel as he held the sheet or took his + turn at the tiller. Joan’s eyes were now on the sky, now on the sail, and + now on the land, weighing as wisely as her father the advantage of the + wind, yet dwelling on that cave where skeletons kept ward over the spoils + of a pirate ship. + </p> + <p> + They arrived, and Tarboe took the Ninety-Nine warily in on a little wind + off the land. He came near sharing the fate of Brigond, for the yawl + grazed the needle of the rock that, hiding away in the water, with a nose + out for destruction, awaits its victims. They reached safe anchorage, but + by the time they landed it was night, with, however, a good moon showing. + </p> + <p> + All night they searched, three silent, eager figures, drawing step by step + nearer the place where the ancient enemy of man was barracked about by + men’s bodies. It was Joan who, at last, as dawn drew up, discovered the + hollow between two great rocks where the treasure lay. A few minutes’ + fierce digging, and the kegs of gold were disclosed, showing through the + ribs of two skeletons. Joan shrank back, but the two men tossed aside the + rattling bones, and presently the kegs were standing between them on the + open shore. Bissonnette’s eyes were hungry—he knew now the wherefore + of the quest. He laughed outright, a silly, loud, hysterical laugh. + Tarboe’s eyes shifted from the sky to the river, from the river to the + kegs, from the kegs to Bissonnette. On him they stayed a moment. + Bissonnette shrank back. Tarboe was feeling for the first time in his life + the deadly suspicion which comes with ill-gotten wealth. This passed as + his eyes and Joan’s met, for she had caught the melodrama, the overstrain; + Bissonnette’s laugh had pointed the situation; and her sense of humour had + prevailed. “La, la,” she said, with a whimsical quirk of the head, and no + apparent relevancy: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, + Your house is on fire, and your children all gone.” + </pre> + <p> + The remedy was good. Tarboe’s eyes came again to their natural liveliness, + and Bissonnette said: + </p> + <p> + “My throat’s like a piece of sand-paper.” + </p> + <p> + Tarboe handed over a brandy flask, after taking a pull himself, and then + sitting down on one of the kegs, he said: “It is as you see, and now Angel + Point very quick. To get it there safe, that’s the thing!” Then, scanning + the sky closely: “It’s for a handsome day, and the wind goes to bear us up + fine. Good! Well, for you, Bissonnette, there shall be a thousand dollars, + you shall have the Belle Chatelaine Inn and the little lady at Point + Pierrot. For the rest, you shall keep a quiet tongue, eh? If not, my + Bissonnette, we shall be the best of strangers, and you shall not be + happy. Hein?” + </p> + <p> + Bissonnette’s eyes flashed. “The Belle Chatelaine? Good! That is enough. + My tongue is tied; I cannot speak; it is fastened with a thousand pegs.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good, a thousand gold pegs, and you shall never pull them. The + little lady will have you with them, not without; and unless you stand by + me, no one shall have you at any price—by God!” + </p> + <p> + He stood up, but Joan put out her hand. “You have been speaking, now it is + my turn. Don’t cry cook till you have the venison home. What is more, I + gave my word to Gobal, and I will keep it. I will be captain. No talking! + When you’ve got the kegs in the cellar at Angel Point, good! But now—come, + my comrades, I am your captain!” + </p> + <p> + She was making the thing a cheerful adventure, and the men now swung the + kegs on their shoulders and carried them to the boat. In another half-hour + they were under way in the gaudy light of an orange sunrise, a simmering + wind from the sea lifting them up the river, and the grey-red coast of + Labrador shrinking sullenly back. + </p> + <p> + About this time, also, a Government cutter was putting out from under the + mountain-wall at Quebec, its officer in command having got renewed orders + from the Minister to bring in Tarboe the smuggler. And when Mr. Martin, + the inspector in command of the expedition, was ordered to take with him + Mr. Orvay Lafarge and five men, “effectively armed,” it was supposed by + the romantic Minister that the matter was as good as done. + </p> + <p> + What Mr. Orvay Lafarge did when he got the word, was to go straight to his + hat-peg, then leave the office, walk to the little club where he spent + leisure hours, called office hours by people who wished to be precise as + well as suggestive,—sit down, and raise a glass to his lips. After + which he threw himself back in his chair and said: “Well, I’m particularly + damned!” A few hours later they were away on their doubtful exploit. + </p> + <p> + II. THE DEFENCE + </p> + <p> + On the afternoon of the second day after she left Labrador, the + Ninety-Nine came rippling near Isle of Fires, not sixty miles from her + destination, catching a fair wind on her quarter off the land. Tarboe was + in fine spirits, Joan was as full of songs as a canary, and Bissonnette + was as busy watching her as in keeping the nose of the Ninety-Nine + pointing for Cap de Gloire. Tarboe was giving the sail full to the wind, + and thinking how he would just be able to reach Angel Point and get his + treasure housed before mass in the morning. + </p> + <p> + Mass! How many times had he laughed as he sat in church and heard the cure + have his gentle fling at smuggling! To think that the hiding-place for his + liquor was the unused, almost unknown, cellar of that very church, built a + hundred years before as a refuge from the Indians, which he had reached by + digging a tunnel from the shore to its secret passage! That was why the + customs officers never found anything at Angel Point, and that was why + Tarboe much loved going to mass. He sometimes thought he could catch the + flavour of the brands as he leaned his forehead on the seat before him. + But this time he would go to mass with a fine handful of those gold pieces + in his pocket, just to keep him in a commendable mood. He laughed out loud + at the thought of doing so within a stone’s throw of a fortune and + nose-shot of fifty kegs of brandy. + </p> + <p> + As he did so, Bissonnette gave a little cry. They were coming on to Cap de + Gloire at the moment, and Tarboe and Joan, looking, saw a boat standing + off towards the mainland, as if waiting for them. Tarboe gave a roar, and + called to Joan to take the tiller. He snatched a glass and levelled it. + </p> + <p> + “A Government tug!” he said, “and tete de Diable! there’s your tall + Lafarge among ‘em, Joan! I’d know him by his height miles off.” + </p> + <p> + Joan lost colour a trifle and then got courage. “Pshaw,” she said, “what + does he want?” + </p> + <p> + “Want? Want? He wants the Ninety-Nine and her cargo; but by the sun of my + soul, he’ll get her across the devil’s gridiron! See here, my girl, this + ain’t any sport with you aboard. Bissonnette and I could make a stand for + it alone, but what’s to become of you? I don’t want you mixed up in the + mess.” + </p> + <p> + The girl was eyeing the Government boat. “But I’m in it, and I can’t be + out of it, and I don’t want to be out now that I am in. Let me see the + glass.” She took it in one hand. “Yes, it must be M’sieu’ Lafarge,” she + said, frowning. “He might have stayed out of this.” + </p> + <p> + “When he’s got orders, he has to go,” answered her father; “but he must + look out, for a gun is a gun, and I don’t pick and choose. Besides, I’ve + no contraband this cruise, and I’ll let no one stick me up.” + </p> + <p> + “There are six or seven of them,” said Joan debatingly. + </p> + <p> + “Bring her up to the wind,” shouted Tarboe to Bissonnette. The mainsail + closed up several points, the Ninety-Nine slackened her pace and edged in + closer to the land. “Now, my girl,” said Tarboe, “this is how it stands. + If we fight, there’s someone sure to be hurt, and if I’m hurt, where’ll + you be?” + </p> + <p> + Bissonnette interposed. “We’ve got nothing contraband. The gold is ours.” + </p> + <p> + “Trust that crew—but no!” cried Tarboe, with an oath. “The + Government would hold the rhino for possible owners, and then give it to a + convent or something. They shan’t put foot here. They’ve said war, and + they’ll get it. They’re signalling us to stop, and they’re bearing down. + There goes a shot!” + </p> + <p> + The girl had been watching the Government boat coolly. Now that it began + to bear on, she answered her father’s question. + </p> + <p> + “Captain,” she said, like a trusted mate, “we’ll bluff them.” Her eyes + flashed with the intelligence of war. “Here, quick, I’ll take the tiller. + They haven’t seen Bissonnette yet; he sits low. Call all hands on deck—shout! + Then, see: Loce will go down the middle hatch, get a gun, come up with it + on his shoulder, and move on to the fo’castle. Then he’ll drop down the + fo’castle hatch, get along to the middle hatch, and come up again with the + gun, now with his cap, now without it, now with his coat, now without it. + He’ll do that till we’ve got twenty or thirty men on deck! They’ll think + we’ve been laying for them, and they’ll not come on—you see!” + </p> + <p> + Tarboe ripped out an oath. “It’s a great game,” he said, and a moment + afterwards, in response to his roars, Bissonnette came up the hatch with + his gun showing bravely; then again and again, now with his cap, now + without, now with his coat, now with none, anon with a tarpaulin over his + shoulders grotesquely. Meanwhile Tarboe trained his one solitary little + cannon on the enemy, roaring his men into place. + </p> + <p> + From the tug it seemed that a large and well-armed crew were ranging + behind the bulwarks of the Ninety-Nine. Mr. Martin, the inspector, saw + with alarm Bissonnette’s constantly appearing rifle. + </p> + <p> + “They’ve arranged a plant for us, Mr. Lafarge. What do you think we’d + better do?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Fight!” answered Lafarge laconically. He wished to put himself on record, + for he was the only one on board who saw through the ruse. + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve counted at least twenty men, all armed, and we’ve only five.” + </p> + <p> + “As you please, sir,” said Lafarge bluntly, angry at being tricked, but + inwardly glad to be free of the business, for he pictured to himself that + girl at the tiller—he had seen her as she went aft—in a police + court at Quebec. Yet his instinct for war and his sense of duty impelled + him to say: “Still, sir, fight!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, Mr. Lafarge,” excitedly rejoined his chief. “I cannot risk it. We + must go back for more men and bring along a Gatling. Slow down!” he + called. Lafarge turned on his heel with an oath, and stood watching the + Ninety-Nine. + </p> + <p> + “She’ll laugh at me till I die!” he said to himself presently, as the tug + turned up stream and pointed for Quebec. “Well, I’m jiggered!” he added, + as a cannon shot came ringing over the water after them. He was certain + also that he heard loud laughter. No doubt he was right; for as the tug + hurried on, Tarboe ran to Joan, hugged her like a bear, and roared till he + ached. Then she paid out the sheet, they clapped on all sail, and + travelled in the track of the enemy. + </p> + <p> + Tarboe’s spirit was roused. He was not disposed to let his enemy off on + even such terms, so he now turned to Joan and said: “What say you to a + chase of the gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + Joan was in a mood for such a dare-devil adventure. For three people, one + of whom was a girl, to give chase to a well-manned, well-armed Government + boat was too good a relish to be missed. Then, too, it had just occurred + to her that a parley would be amusing, particularly if she and Lafarge + were the truce-bearers. So she said: “That is very good.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose they should turn and fight?” suggested Bissonnette. + </p> + <p> + “That’s true—here’s m’am’selle,” agreed Tarboe. “But, see,” said + Joan. “If we chase them and call upon them to surrender—and after + all, we can prove that we had nothing contraband—what a splendid + game it’ll be!” Mischief flicked in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Good!” said Tarboe. “To-morrow I shall be a rich man, and then they’ll + not dare to come again.” + </p> + <p> + So saying, he gave the sail to the wind, and away the Ninety-Nine went + after the one ewe lamb of the Government. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Martin saw her coming, and gave word for all steam. It would be a + pretty game, for the wind was in Tarboe’s favour, and the general + advantage was not greatly with the tug. Mr. Martin was now anxious indeed + to get out of the way of the smuggler. Lafarge made one restraining + effort, then settled into an ironical mood. Yet a half-dozen times he was + inclined to blurt out to Martin what he believed was the truth. A man, a + boy, and a girl to bluff them that way! In his bones he felt that it was + the girl who was behind this thing. Of one matter he was sure—they + had no contraband stuff on board, or Tarboe would not have brought his + daughter along. He could not understand the attitude, for Tarboe would + scarcely have risked the thing out of mere bravado. Why not call a truce? + Perhaps he could solve the problem. They were keeping a tolerably safe + distance apart, and there was no great danger of the Ninety-Nine + overhauling them even if it so willed; but Mr. Martin did not know that. + </p> + <p> + What he said to his chief had its effect, and soon there was a white flag + flying on the tug. It was at once answered with a white handkerchief of + Joan’s. Then the tug slowed up, the Ninety-Nine came on gaily, and at a + good distance came up to the wind, and stood off. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” asked Tarboe through his speaking-tube. + </p> + <p> + “A parley,” called Mr. Martin. + </p> + <p> + “Good; send an officer,” answered Tarboe. + </p> + <p> + A moment after, Lafarge was in a boat rowing over to meet another boat + rowed by Joan alone, who, dressed in a suit of Bissonnette’s, had + prevailed on her father to let her go. + </p> + <p> + The two boats nearing each other, Joan stood up, saluting, and Lafarge did + the same. + </p> + <p> + “Good-day, m’sieu’,” said Joan, with assumed brusqueness, mischief lurking + about her mouth. “What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Good-day, monsieur; I did not expect to confer with you.” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’,” said Joan, with well-acted dignity, “if you prefer to confer + with the captain or Mr. Bissonnette, whom I believe you know in the matter + of a pail, and—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; pardon me, monsieur,” said Lafarge more eagerly than was good for + the play, “I am glad to confer with you, you will understand—you + will understand—” He paused. + </p> + <p> + “What will I understand?” + </p> + <p> + “You will understand that I understand!” Lafarge waved meaningly towards + the Ninety-Nine, but it had no effect at all. Joan would not give the game + over into his hands. + </p> + <p> + “That sounds like a charade or a puzzle game. We are gentlemen on a + serious errand, aren’t we?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” answered Lafarge, “perfect gentlemen on a perfectly serious + errand!” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, m’sieu’. Have you come to surrender?” The splendid impudence + of the thing stunned Lafarge, but he said: “I suppose one or the other + ought to surrender; and naturally,” he added with slow point, “it should + be the weaker.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Our captain is willing to consider conditions. You came down + on us to take us—a quiet craft sailing in free waters. You attack us + without cause. We summon all hands, and you run. We follow, you ask for + truce. It is granted. We are not hard—no. We only want our rights. + Admit them; we’ll make surrender easy, and the matter is over.” + </p> + <p> + Lafarge gasped. She was forcing his hand. She would not understand his + oblique suggestions. He saw only one way now, and that was to meet her, + boast for boast. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t come to surrender,” he said, “but to demand.” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’,” Joan said grandly, “there’s nothing more to say. Carry word to + your captain that we’ll overhaul him by sundown, and sink him before + supper.” + </p> + <p> + Lafarge burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Well, by the Lord, but you’re a swashbuckler, Joan—” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nonsense! I tell you, nonsense! Let’s have over with this, my girl. + You’re the cleverest woman on the continent, but there’s a limit to + everything. Here, tell me now, and if you answer me straight I’ll say no + more.” + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, I am here to consider conditions, not to—” “Oh, for God’s + sake, Joan! Tell me now, have you got anything contraband on board? + There’ll be a nasty mess about the thing, for me and all of us, and why + can’t we compromise? I tell you honestly we’d have come on, if I hadn’t + seen you aboard.” + </p> + <p> + Joan turned her head back with a laugh. “My poor m’sieu’! You have such + bad luck. Contraband? Let me see? Liquors and wines and tobacco are + contraband. Is it not so?” Lafarge nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Is money—gold—contraband?” + </p> + <p> + “Money? No; of course not, and you know it. Why won’t you be sensible? + You’re getting me into a bad hole, and—” + </p> + <p> + “I want to see how you’ll come out. If you come out well—” She + paused quaintly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if I come out well—” + </p> + <p> + “If you come out very well, and we do not sink you before supper, I may + ask you to come and see me.” + </p> + <p> + “H’m! Is that all? After spoiling my reputation, I’m to be let come and + see you.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that enough to start with? What has spoiled your reputation?” + </p> + <p> + “A man, a boy, and a slip of a girl.” He looked meaningly enough at her + now. She laughed. “See,” he added; “give me a chance. Let me search the + Ninety-Nine for contraband,—that’s all I’ve got to do with,—and + then I can keep quiet about the rest. If there’s no contraband, whatever + else there is, I’ll hold my tongue.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve told you what there is.” + </p> + <p> + He did not understand. “Will you let me search?” Joan’s eyes flashed. + “Once and for all, no, Orvay Lafarge. I am the daughter of a man whom you + and your men would have killed or put in the dock. He’s been a smuggler, + and I know it. Who has he robbed? Not the poor, not the needy; but a rich + Government that robs also. Well, in the hour when he ceases to be a + smuggler for ever, armed men come to take him. Why didn’t they do so + before? Why so pious all at once? No; I am first the daughter of my + father, and afterwards—” + </p> + <p> + “And afterwards?” + </p> + <p> + “What to-morrow may bring forth.” + </p> + <p> + Lafarge became very serious. “I must go back. Mr. Martin is signalling, + and your father is calling. I do not understand, but you’re the one woman + in the world for my money, and I’m ready to stand by that and leave the + customs to-morrow if need be.” + </p> + <p> + Joan’s eyes blazed, her cheek was afire. “Leave it to-day. Leave it now. + Yes; that’s my one condition. If you want me, and you say you do, come + aboard the Ninety-Nine, and for to-day be one of us-to-morrow what you + will.” + </p> + <p> + “What I will? What I will, Joan? Do you mean it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Pshaw! Your duty? Don’t I know how the Ministers and the officers + have done their duty at Quebec? It’s all nonsense. You must make your + choice once for all now.” + </p> + <p> + Lafarge stood a moment thinking. “Joan, I’ll do it. I’d go hunting in hell + at your bidding. But see. Everything’s changed. I couldn’t fight against + you, but I can fight for you. All must be open now. You’ve said there’s no + contraband. Well, I’ll tell Mr. Martin so, but I’ll tell him also that + you’ve only a crew of two—” + </p> + <p> + “Of three, now!” + </p> + <p> + “Of three! I will do my duty in that, then resign and come over to you, if + I can.” + </p> + <p> + “If you can? You mean that they may fire on you?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell what they may do. But I must deal fair.” + </p> + <p> + Joan’s face was grave. “Very well, I will wait for you here.” + </p> + <p> + “They might hit you.” + </p> + <p> + “But no. They can’t hit a wall. Go on, my dear.” They saluted, and, as + Lafarge turned away, Joan said, with a little mocking laugh, “Tell him + that he must surrender, or we’ll sink him before supper.” + </p> + <p> + Lafarge nodded, and drew away quickly towards the tug. His interview with + Mr. Martin was brief, and he had tendered his resignation, though it was + disgracefully informal, and was over the side of the boat again and rowing + quickly away before his chief recovered his breath. Then Mr. Martin got a + large courage. He called on his men to fire when Lafarge was about two + hundred and fifty feet from the tug. The shots rattled about him. He + turned round coolly and called out, “Coward-we’ll sink you before supper!” + </p> + <p> + A minute afterwards there came another shot, and an oar dropped from his + hand. But now Joan was rowing rapidly towards him, and presently was + alongside. + </p> + <p> + “Quick, jump inhere,” she said. He did so, and she rowed on quickly. + Tarboe did not understand, but now his blood was up, and as another volley + sent bullets dropping around the two he gave the Ninety-Nine to the wind, + and she came bearing down smartly to them. In a few moments they were + safely on board, and Joan explained. Tarboe grasped Lafarge’s unmaimed + hand,—the other Joan was caring for,—and swore that fighting + was the only thing left now. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Martin had said the same, but when he saw the Ninety-Nine determined, + menacing, and coming on, he became again uncertain, and presently gave + orders to make for the lighthouse on the opposite side of the river. He + could get over first, for the Ninety-Nine would not have the wind so much + in her favour, and there entrench himself; for even yet Bissonnette amply + multiplied was in his mind—Lafarge had not explained that away. He + was in the neighbourhood of some sunken rocks of which he and his man at + the wheel did not know accurately, and in making what he thought was a + clear channel he took a rock with great force, for they were going full + steam ahead. Then came confusion, and in getting out the one boat it was + swamped and a man nearly drowned. Meanwhile the tug was fast sinking. + </p> + <p> + While they were throwing off their clothes, the Ninety-Nine came down, and + stood off. On one hand was the enemy, on the other the water, with the + shore half a mile distant. + </p> + <p> + “Do you surrender?” called out Tarboe. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t we come aboard without that?” feebly urged Mr. Martin. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll see you damned first, Mr. Martin. Come quick, or I’ll give you what + for.” + </p> + <p> + “We surrender,” answered the officer gently. + </p> + <p> + A few minutes later he and his men were on board, with their rifles + stacked in a corner at Bissonnette’s hand. + </p> + <p> + Then Tarboe brought the Ninety-Nine close to the wreck, and with his + little cannon put a ball into her. This was the finish. She shook her + nose, shivered, shot down like a duck, and was gone. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Martin was sad even to tears. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my beauties,” said Tarboe, “now that I’ve got you safe, I’ll show + you the kind of cargo I’ve got.” A moment afterwards he hoisted a keg on + deck. “Think that’s whisky?” he asked. “Lift it, Mr. Martin.” Mr. Martin + obeyed. “Shake it,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Martin did so. “Open it, Mr. Martin.” He held out a hatchet-hammer. + The next moment a mass of gold pieces yellowed to their eyes. Mr. Martin + fell back, breathing hard. + </p> + <p> + “Is that contraband, Mr. Martin?” + </p> + <p> + “Treasure-trove,” humbly answered the stricken officer. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it, and in a month, Mr. Martin, I’ll be asking the chief of your + department to dinner.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Lafarge saw how near he had been to losing a wife and a fortune. + Arrived off Isle of Day; Tarboe told Mr. Martin and his men that if they + said “treasure-trove” till they left the island their live would not be + worth “a tinker’s damn.” When they had sworn, he took them to Angel Point, + fed then royally, gave them excellent liquor to drink, and sent them in a + fishing-smack with Bissonnette to Quebec where, arriving, they told + strange tales. + </p> + <p> + Bissonnette bore a letter to a certain banker in Quebec, who already had + done business with Tarboe, and next midnight Tarboe himself, with Gobal, + Lafarge, Bissonnette, and another, came knocking at the banker’s door, + each carrying a keg on his shoulder and armed to the teeth. And, what was + singular two stalwart police-officers walked behind with comfortable and + approving looks. + </p> + <p> + A month afterwards Lafarge and Joan were married in the parish church at + Isle of Days, and it was said that Mr. Martin, who, for some strange + reason, was allowed to retain his position in the customs, sent a present. + The wedding ended with a sensation, for just as the benediction was + pronounced a loud report was heard beneath the floor of the church. There + was great commotion, but Tarboe whispered in the curb’s ear, and he + blushing, announced that it was the bursting of a barrel. A few minutes + afterwards the people of the parish knew the old hiding-place of Tarboe’s + contraband, and, though the cure rebuked them, they roared with laughter + at the knowledge. + </p> + <p> + “So droll, so droll, our Tarboe there!” they shouted, for already they + began to look upon him as their Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + In time the cure forgave him also. + </p> + <p> + Tarboe seldom left Isle of Days, save when he went to visit his daughter, + in St. Louis Street, Quebec, not far from the Parliament House, where + Orvay Lafarge is a member of the Ministry. The ex-smuggler was a member of + the Assembly for three months, but after defeating his own party on a + question of tariff, he gave a portrait of himself to the Chamber, and + threw his seat into the hands of his son-in-law. At the Belle Chatelaine, + where he often goes, he sometimes asks Bissonnette to play “The Demoiselle + with the Scarlet Hose.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + </h2> + <h3> + I + </h3> + <p> + When old Throng the trader, trembling with sickness and misery, got on his + knees to Captain Halby and groaned, “She didn’t want to go; they dragged + her off; you’ll fetch her back, won’t ye?—she always had a fancy for + you, cap’n,” Pierre shrugged a shoulder and said: + </p> + <p> + “But you stole her when she was in her rock-a-by, my Throng—you and + your Manette.” + </p> + <p> + “Like a match she was—no bigger,” continued the old man. “Lord, how + that stepmother bully-ragged her, and her father didn’t care a darn. He’d + half a dozen others—Manette and me hadn’t none. We took her and used + her like as if she was an angel, and we brought her off up here. Haven’t + we set store by her? Wasn’t it ‘cause we was lonely an’ loved her we took + her? Hasn’t everybody stood up and said there wasn’t anyone like her in + the North? Ain’t I done fair by her always—ain’t I? An’ now, when + this cough ‘s eatin’ my life out, and Manette ‘s gone, and there ain’t a + soul but Duc the trapper to put a blister on to me, them brutes ride up + from over the border, call theirselves her brothers, an’ drag her off!” + </p> + <p> + He was still on his knees. Pierre reached over and lightly kicked a + moccasined foot. + </p> + <p> + “Get up, Jim Throng,” he said. “Holy! do you think the law moves because + an old man cries? Is it in the statutes?—that’s what the law says. + Does it come within the act? Is it a trespass—an assault and + battery?—a breach of the peace?—a misdemeanour? Victoria—So + and So: that’s how the law talks. Get on your knees to Father Corraine, + not to Captain Halby, Jimmy Throng.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre spoke in a half-sinister, ironical way, for between him and Captain + Halby’s Riders of the Plains there was no good feeling. More than once he + had come into conflict with them, more than once had they laid their hands + on him—and taken them off again in due time. He had foiled them as + to men they wanted; he had defied them—but he had helped them too, + when it seemed right to him; he had sided with them once or twice when to + do so was perilous to himself. He had sneered at them, he did not like + them, nor they him. The sum of it was, he thought them brave—and + stupid; and he knew that the law erred as often as it set things right. + </p> + <p> + The Trader got up and stood between the two men, coughing much, his face + straining, his eyes bloodshot, as he looked anxiously from Pierre to + Halby. He was the sad wreck of a strong man. Nothing looked strong about + him now save his head, which, with its long grey hair, seemed badly + balanced by the thin neck, through which the terrible cough was hacking. + </p> + <p> + “Only half a lung left,” he stammered, as soon as he could speak, “an’ Duc + can’t fix the boneset, camomile, and whisky, as she could. An’ he waters + the whisky—curse-his-soul!” The last three words were spoken through + another spasm of coughing. “An’ the blister—how he mucks the + blister!” + </p> + <p> + Pierre sat back on the table, laughing noiselessly, his white teeth + shining. Halby, with one foot on a bench, was picking at the fur on his + sleeve thoughtfully. His face was a little drawn, his lips were + tight-pressed, and his eyes had a light of excitement. Presently he + straightened himself, and, after a half-malicious look at Pierre, he said + to Throng: + </p> + <p> + “Where are they, do you say?” + </p> + <p> + “They’re at”—the old man coughed hard—“at Fort O’Battle.” + </p> + <p> + “What are they doing there?” + </p> + <p> + “Waitin’ till spring, when they’ll fetch their cattle up an’ settle + there.” + </p> + <p> + “They want—Lydia—to keep house for them?” The old man writhed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, God’s sake, that’s it! An’ they want Liddy to marry a devil called + Borotte, with a thousand cattle or so—Pito the courier told me + yesterday. Pito saw her, an’ he said she was white like a sheet, an’ + called out to him as he went by. Only half a lung I got, an’ her boneset + and camomile ‘d save it for a bit, mebbe—mebbe!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s clear,” said Halby, “that they trespassed, and they haven’t proved + their right to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Tonnerre, what a thinker!” said Pierre, mocking. Halby did not notice. + His was a solid sense of responsibility. + </p> + <p> + “She is of age?” he half asked, half mused. + </p> + <p> + “She’s twenty-one,” answered the old man, with difficulty. + </p> + <p> + “Old enough to set the world right,” suggested Pierre, still mocking. + </p> + <p> + “She was forced away, she regarded you as her natural protector, she + believed you her father: they broke the law,” said the soldier. + </p> + <p> + “There was Moses, and Solomon, and Caesar, and Socrates, and now...!” + murmured Pierre in assumed abstraction. + </p> + <p> + A red spot burned on Halby’s high cheekbone for a minute, but he + persistently kept his temper. + </p> + <p> + “I’m expected elsewhere,” he said at last. “I’m only one man, yet I wish I + could go to-day—even alone. But—” + </p> + <p> + “But you have a heart,” said Pierre. “How wonderful—a heart! And + there’s the half a lung, and the boneset and camomile tea, and the + blister, and the girl with an eye like a spot of rainbow, and the sacred + law in a Remington rifle! Well, well! And to do it in the early morning—to + wait in the shelter of the trees till some go to look after the horses, + then enter the house, arrest those inside, and lay low for the rest.” + </p> + <p> + Halby looked over at Pierre astonished. Here was raillery and good advice + all in a piece. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t wise to go alone, for if there’s trouble and I should go down, + who’s to tell the truth? Two could do it; but one—no, it isn’t wise, + though it would look smart enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Who said to go alone?” asked Pierre, scrawling on the table with a burnt + match. + </p> + <p> + “I have no men.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked up at the wall. + </p> + <p> + “Throng has a good Snider there,” he said. “Bosh! Throng can’t go.” + </p> + <p> + The old man coughed and strained. + </p> + <p> + “If it wasn’t—only-half a lung, and I could carry the boneset ‘long + with us.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre slid off the table, came to the old man, and, taking him by the + arms, pushed him gently into a chair. “Sit down; don’t be a fool, Throng,” + he said. Then he turned to Halby: “You’re a magistrate—make me a + special constable; I’ll go, monsieur le capitaine—of no company.” + </p> + <p> + Halby stared. He knew Pierre’s bravery, his ingenuity and daring. But this + was the last thing he expected: that the malicious, railing little + half-breed would work with him and the law. Pierre seemed to understand + his thoughts, for he said: “It is not for you. I am sick for adventure, + and then there is mademoiselle—such a finger she has for a ven’son + pudding.” + </p> + <p> + Without a word Halby wrote on a leaf in his notebook, and presently handed + the slip to Pierre. “That’s your commission as a special constable,” he + said, “and here’s the seal on it.” He handed over a pistol. + </p> + <p> + Pierre raised his eyebrows at it, but Halby continued: “It has the + Government mark. But you’d better bring Throng’s rifle too.” + </p> + <p> + Throng sat staring at the two men, his hands nervously shifting on his + knees. “Tell Liddy,” he said, “that the last batch of bread was sour—Duc + ain’t no good-an’ that I ain’t had no relish sence she left. Tell her the + cough gits lower down all the time. ‘Member when she tended that felon o’ + yourn, Pierre?” + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked at a sear on his finger and nodded. “She cut it too young; + but she had the nerve! When do you start, captain? It’s an eighty-mile + ride.” + </p> + <p> + “At once,” was the reply. “We can sleep to-night in the Jim-a-long-Jo” (a + hut which the Company had built between two distant posts), “and get there + at dawn day after to-morrow. The snow is light and we can travel quick. I + have a good horse, and you—” + </p> + <p> + “I have my black Tophet. He’ll travel with your roan as on one + snaffle-bar. That roan—you know where he come from?” + </p> + <p> + “From the Dolright stud, over the Border.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s wrong. He come from Greystop’s paddock, where my Tophet was + foaled; they are brothers. Yours was stole and sold to the Gover’ment; + mine was bought by good hard money. The law the keeper of stolen goods, + eh? But these two will go cinch to cinch all the way, like two brothers—like + you and me.” + </p> + <p> + He could not help the touch of irony in his last words: he saw the amusing + side of things, and all humour in him had a strain of the sardonic. + </p> + <p> + “Brothers-in-law for a day or two,” answered Halby drily. + </p> + <p> + Within two hours they were ready to start. Pierre had charged Duc the + incompetent upon matters for the old man’s comfort, and had himself, with + a curious sort of kindness, steeped the boneset and camomile in whisky, + and set a cup of it near his chair. Then he had gone up to Throng’s + bedroom and straightened out and shook and “made” the corn-husk bed, which + had gathered into lumps and rolls. Before he came down he opened a door + near by and entered another room, shutting the door, and sitting down on a + chair. A stovepipe ran through the room, and it was warm, though the + window was frosted and the world seemed shut out. He looked round slowly, + keenly interested. There was a dressing-table made of an old box; it was + covered with pink calico, with muslin over this. A cheap looking-glass on + it was draped with muslin and tied at the top with a bit of pink ribbon. A + common bone comb lay near the glass, and beside it a beautiful brush with + an ivory back and handle. This was the only expensive thing in the room. + He wondered, but did not go near it yet. There was a little eight-day + clock on a bracket which had been made by hand—pasteboard darkened + with umber and varnished; a tiny little set of shelves made of the wood of + cigar-boxes; and—alas, the shifts of poverty to be gay!—an + easy-chair made of the staves of a barrel and covered with poor chintz. + Then there was a photograph or two, in little frames made from the red + cedar of cigar-boxes, with decorations of putty, varnished, and a long + panel screen of birch-bark of Indian workmanship. Some dresses hung behind + the door. The bedstead was small, the frame was of hickory, with no + footboard, ropes making the support for the husk tick. Across the foot lay + a bedgown and a pair of stockings. + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked long, at first curiously; but after a little his forehead + gathered and his lips drew in a little, as if he had a twinge of pain. He + got up, went over near the bed, and picked up a hairpin. Then he came back + to the chair and sat down, turning it about in his fingers, still looking + abstractedly at the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Lucy!” he said presently; “the poor child! Ah, what a devil I was + then—so long ago!” + </p> + <p> + This solitary room—Lydia’s—had brought back the time he went + to the room of his own wife, dead by her own hand after an attempt to + readjust the broken pieces of life, and sat and looked at the place which + had been hers, remembering how he had left her with her wet face turned to + the wall, and never saw her again till she was set free for ever. Since + that time he had never sat in a room sacred to a woman alone. + </p> + <p> + “What a fool, what a fool, to think!” he said at last, standing up; “but + this girl must be saved. She must have her home here again.” + </p> + <p> + Unconsciously he put the hairpin in his pocket, walked over to the + dressing-table and picked up the hair-brush. On its back was the legend, + “L. T. from C. H.” He gave a whistle. + </p> + <p> + “So-so?” he said, “‘C. H.’ M’sieu’ le capitaine, is it like that?” + </p> + <p> + A year before, Lydia had given Captain Halby a dollar to buy her a + hair-brush at Winnipeg, and he had brought her one worth ten dollars. She + had beautiful hair, and what pride she had in using this brush! Every + Sunday morning she spent a long time in washing, curling, and brushing her + hair, and every night she tended it lovingly, so that it was a splendid + rich brown like her eye, coiling nobly above her plain, strong face with + its good colour. + </p> + <p> + Pierre, glancing in the glass, saw Captain Halby’s face looking over his + shoulder. It startled him, and he turned round. There was the face looking + out from a photograph that hung on the wall in the recess where the bed + was. He noted now that the likeness hung where the girl could see it the + last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. + </p> + <p> + “So far as that, eh!” he said. “And m’sieu’ is a gentleman, too. We shall + see what he will do: he has his chance now, once for all.” + </p> + <p> + He turned, came to the door, softly opened it, passed out, and shut it, + then descended the stairs, and in half an hour was at the door with + Captain Halby, ready to start. It was an exquisite winter day, even in its + bitter coldness. The sun was shining clear and strong, all the plains + glistened and shook like quicksilver, and the vast blue cup of sky seemed + deeper than it had ever been. But the frost ate the skin like an acid, and + when Throng came to the door Pierre drove him back instantly from the air. + </p> + <p> + “I only-wanted—to say—to Liddy,” hacked the old man, “that I’m + thinkin’—a little m’lasses ‘d kinder help—the boneset an’ + camomile. Tell her that the cattle ‘ll all be hers—an’—the + house, an’ I ain’t got no one but—” + </p> + <p> + But Pierre pushed him back and shut the door, saying: “I’ll tell her what + a fool you are, Jimmy Throng.” The old man, as he sat down awkwardly in + his chair, with Duc stolidly lighting his pipe and watching him, said to + himself: “Yes, I be a durn fool; I be, I be!” over and over again. And + when the dog got up from near the stove and came near to him, he added: “I + be, Touser; I be a durn fool, for I ought to ha’ stole two or three, an’ + then I’d not be alone, an’ nothin’ but sour bread an’ pork to eat. I ought + to ha’ stole three.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Manette ought to have given you some of your own, it’s true, that!” + said Duc stolidly. “You never was a real father, Jim.” + </p> + <p> + “Liddy got to look like me; she got to look like Manette and me, I tell + ye!” said the old man hoarsely. Duc laughed in his stupid way. “Look like + you? Look like you, Jim, with a face to turn milk sour? Ho, ho!” + </p> + <p> + Throng rose, his face purple with anger, and made as if to catch Duc by + the throat, but a fit of coughing seized him, and presently blood showed + on his lips. Duc, with a rough gentleness, wiped off the blood and put the + whisky-and-herbs to the sick man’s lips, saying, in a fatherly way: + </p> + <p> + “For why you do like that? You’re a fool, Jimmy!” + </p> + <p> + “I be, I be,” said the old man in a whisper, and let his hand rest on + Duc’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll fix the bread sweet next time, Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” said the husky voice peevishly. “She’ll do it—Liddy’ll do + it. Liddy’s comin’.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Jimmy. All right.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment Throng shook his head feebly and said, scarcely above a + whisper: + </p> + <p> + “But I be a durn fool—when she’s not here.” + </p> + <p> + Duc nodded and gave him more whisky and herbs. “My feet’s cold,” said the + old man, and Duc wrapped a bearskin round his legs. + </p> + <p> + II + </p> + <p> + For miles Pierre and Halby rode without a word. Then they got down and + walked for a couple of miles, to bring the blood into their legs again. + </p> + <p> + “The old man goes to By-by bientot,” said Pierre at last. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t think he’ll last long?” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe ten days; maybe one. If we don’t get the girl, out goes his + torchlight straight.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s been very good to him.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s been on his knees to her all her life.” + </p> + <p> + “There’ll be trouble out of this, though.” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw! The girl is her own master.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean, someone will probably get hurt over there.” He nodded in the + direction of Fort O’Battle. + </p> + <p> + “That’s in the game. The girl is worth fighting for, hein?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, and the law must protect her. It’s a free country.” + </p> + <p> + “So true, my captain,” murmured Pierre drily. “It is wonderful what a man + will do for the law.” + </p> + <p> + The tone struck Halby. Pierre was scanning the horizon abstractedly. + </p> + <p> + “You are always hitting at the law,” he said. “Why do you stand by it + now?” + </p> + <p> + “For the same reason as yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” + </p> + <p> + “She has your picture in her room, she has my lucky dollar in her pocket.” + </p> + <p> + Halby’s face flushed, and then he turned and looked steadily into Pierre’s + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “We’d better settle this thing at once. If you’re going to Fort O’Battle + because you’ve set your fancy there, you’d better go back now. That’s + straight. You and I can’t sail in the same boat. I’ll go alone, so give me + the pistol.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre laughed softly, and waved the hand back. “T’sh! What a + high-cock-a-lorum! You want to do it all yourself—to fill the eye of + the girl alone, and be tucked away to By-by for your pains—mais, + quelle folie! See: you go for law and love; I go for fun and Jimmy Throng. + The girl? Pshaw! she would come out right in the end, without you or me. + But the old man with half a lung—that’s different. He must have + sweet bread in his belly when he dies, and the girl must make it for him. + She shall brush her hair with the ivory brush by Sunday morning.” + </p> + <p> + Halby turned sharply. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been spying,” he said. “You’ve been in her room—you—” + </p> + <p> + Pierre put out his hand and stopped the word on Halby’s lips. + </p> + <p> + “Slow, slow,” he said; “we are both—police to-day. Voila! we must + not fight. There is Throng and the girl to think of.” Suddenly, with a + soft fierceness, he added: “If I looked in her room, what of that? In all + the North is there a woman to say I wrong her? No. Well, what if I carry + her room in my eye; does that hurt her or you?” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps something of the loneliness of the outlaw crept into Pierre’s + voice for an instant, for Halby suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and + said: “Let’s drop the thing, Pierre.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked at him musingly. + </p> + <p> + “When Throng is put to By-by what will you do?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I will marry her, if she’ll have me.” + </p> + <p> + “But she is prairie-born, and you!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a prairie-rider.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment Pierre said, as if to himself: “So quiet and clean, and the + print calico and muslin, and the ivory brush!” + </p> + <p> + It is hard to say whether he was merely working on Halby that he be true + to the girl, or was himself softhearted for the moment. He had a curious + store of legend and chanson, and he had the Frenchman’s power of applying + them, though he did it seldom. But now he said in a half monotone: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Have you seen the way I have built my nest? + (O brave and tall is the Grand Seigneur!) + I have trailed the East, I have searched the West, + (O clear of eye is the Grand Seigneur!) + From South and North I have brought the best: + The feathers fine from an eagle’s crest, + The silken threads from a prince’s vest, + The warm rose-leaf from a maiden’s breast + (O long he bideth, the Grand Seigneur!).” + </pre> + <p> + They had gone scarce a mile farther when Pierre, chancing to turn round, + saw a horseman riding hard after them. They drew up, and soon the man—a + Rider of the Plains—was beside them. He had stopped at Throng’s to + find Halby, and had followed them. Murder had been committed near the + border, and Halby was needed at once. Halby stood still, numb with + distress, for there was Lydia. He turned to Pierre in dismay. Pierre’s + face lighted up with the spirit of fresh adventure. Desperate enterprises + roused him; the impossible had a charm for him. + </p> + <p> + “I will go to Fort O’Battle,” he said. “Give me another pistol.” + </p> + <p> + “You cannot do it alone,” said Halby, hope, however, in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I will do it, or it will do me, voila!” Pierre replied. Halby passed over + a pistol. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll never forget it, on my honour, if you do it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Pierre mounted his horse and said, as if a thought had struck him: “If I + stand for the law in this, will you stand against it some time for me?” + </p> + <p> + Halby hesitated, then said, holding out his hand, “Yes, if it’s nothing + dirty.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre smiled. “Clean tit for clean tat,” he said, touching Halby’s + fingers, and then, with a gesture and an au revoir, put his horse to the + canter, and soon a surf of snow was rising at two points on the prairie, + as the Law trailed south and east. + </p> + <p> + That night Pierre camped in the Jim-a-long-Jo, finding there firewood in + plenty, and Tophet was made comfortable in the lean-to. Within another + thirty hours he was hid in the woods behind Fort O’Battle, having + travelled nearly all night. He saw the dawn break and the beginning of + sunrise as he watched the Fort, growing every moment colder, while his + horse trembled and whinnied softly, suffering also. At last he gave a + little grunt of satisfaction, for he saw two men come out of the Fort and + go to the corral. He hesitated a minute longer, then said: “I’ll not + wait,” patted his horse’s neck, pulled the blanket closer round him, and + started for the Fort. He entered the yard—it was empty. He went to + the door of the Fort, opened it, entered, shut it, locked it softly, and + put the key in his pocket. Then he passed through into a room at the end + of the small hallway. Three men rose from seats by the fire as he did so, + and one said: “Hullo, who’re you?” Another added: “It’s Pretty Pierre.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre looked at the table laid for breakfast, and said: “Where’s Lydia + Throng?” + </p> + <p> + The elder of the three brothers replied: “There’s no Lydia Throng here. + There’s Lydia Bontoff, though, and in another week she’ll be Lydia + something else.” + </p> + <p> + “What does she say about it herself?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve no call to know.” + </p> + <p> + “You stole her, forced her from Throng’s-her father’s house.” + </p> + <p> + “She wasn’t Throng’s; she was a Bontoff—sister of us. + </p> + <p> + “Well, she says Throng, and Throng it’s got to be.” + </p> + <p> + “What have you got to say about it?” + </p> + <p> + At that moment Lydia appeared at the door leading from the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever she has to say,” answered Pierre. + </p> + <p> + “Who’re you talking for?” + </p> + <p> + “For her, for Throng, for the law.” + </p> + <p> + “The law—by gosh, that’s good! You, you darned gambler; you scum!” + said Caleb, the brother who knew him. + </p> + <p> + Pierre showed all the intelligent, resolute coolness of a trained officer + of the law. He heard a little cry behind him, and stepping sideways, and + yet not turning his back on the men, he saw Lydia. + </p> + <p> + “Pierre! Pierre!” she said in a half-frightened way, yet with a sort of + pleasure lighting up her face; and she stepped forward to him. One of the + brothers was about to pull her away, but Pierre whipped out his + commission. “Wait,” he said. “That’s enough. I’m for the law; I belong to + the mounted police. I have come for the girl you stole.” + </p> + <p> + The elder brother snatched the paper and read. Then he laughed loud and + long. “So you’ve come to fetch her away,” he said, “and this is how you do + it!”—he shook the paper. “Well, by—” Suddenly he stopped. + “Come,” he said, “have a drink, and don’t be a dam’ fool. She’s our + sister,—old Throng stole her, and she’s goin’ to marry our partner. + Here, Caleb, fish out the brandy-wine,” he added to his younger brother, + who went to a cupboard and brought the bottle. + </p> + <p> + Pierre, waving the liquor away, said quietly to the girl: “You wish to go + back to your father, to Jimmy Throng?” He then gave her Throng’s message, + and added: “He sits there rocking in the big chair and coughing—coughing! + And then there’s the picture on the wall upstairs and the little ivory + brush—” + </p> + <p> + She put out her hands towards him. “I hate them all here,” she said. “I + never knew them. They forced me away. I have no father but Jimmy Throng. I + will not stay,” she flashed out in sudden anger to the others; “I’ll kill + myself and all of you before I marry that Borotte.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre could hear a man tramping about upstairs. Caleb knocked on the + stove-pipe, and called to him to come down. Pierre guessed it was Borotte. + This would add one more factor to the game. He must move at once. He + suddenly slipped a pistol into the girl’s hand, and with a quick word to + her, stepped towards the door. The elder brother sprang between—which + was what he looked for. By this time every man had a weapon showing, + snatched from wall and shelf. + </p> + <p> + Pierre was cool. He said: “Remember, I am for the law. I am not one man. + You are thieves now; if you fight and kill, you will get the rope, every + one. Move from the door, or I’ll fire. The girl comes with me.” He had + heard a door open behind him, now there was an oath and a report, and a + bullet grazed his cheek and lodged in the wall beyond. He dared not turn + round, for the other men were facing him. He did not move, but the girl + did. “Coward!” she said, and raised her pistol at Borotte, standing with + her back against Pierre’s. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause, in which no one stirred, and then the girl, slowly + walking up to Borotte, her pistol levelled, said: “You low coward—to + shoot a man from behind; and you want to be a decent girl’s husband! These + men that say they’re my brothers are brutes, but you’re a sneak. If you + stir a step I’ll fire.” + </p> + <p> + The cowardice of Borotte was almost ridiculous. He dared not harm the + girl, and her brothers could not prevent her harming him. Here there came + a knocking at the front door. The other brothers had come, and found it + locked. Pierre saw the crisis, and acted instantly. “The girl and I—we + will fight you to the end,” he said, “and then what’s left of you the law + will fight to the end. Come,” he added, “the old man can’t live a week. + When he’s gone then you can try again. She will have what he owns. Quick, + or I arrest you all, and then—” + </p> + <p> + “Let her go,” said Borotte; “it ain’t no use.” Presently the elder brother + broke out laughing. “Damned if I thought the girl had the pluck, an’ + damned if I thought Borotte was a crawler. Put an eye out of him, Liddy, + an’ come to your brother’s arms. Here,” he added to the others, “up with + your popguns; this shindy’s off; and the girl goes back till the old man + tucks up. Have a drink,” he added to Pierre, as he stood his rifle in a + corner and came to the table. + </p> + <p> + In half an hour Pierre and the girl were on their way, leaving Borotte + quarrelling with the brothers, and all drinking heavily. The two arrived + at Throng’s late the next afternoon. There had been a slight thaw during + the day, and the air was almost soft, water dripping from the eaves down + the long icicles. + </p> + <p> + When Lydia entered, the old man was dozing in his chair. The sound of an + axe out behind the house told where Duc was. The whisky-and-herbs was + beside the sick man’s chair, and his feet were wrapped about with + bearskins. The girl made a little gesture of pain, and then stepped softly + over and, kneeling, looked into Throng’s face. The lips were moving. + </p> + <p> + “Dad,” she said, “are you asleep?” + </p> + <p> + “I be a durn fool, I be,” he said in a whisper, and then he began to + cough. She took his’ hands. They were cold, and she rubbed them softly. “I + feel so a’mighty holler,” he said, gasping, “an’ that bread’s sour agin.” + He shook his head pitifully. + </p> + <p> + His eyes at last settled on her, and he recognised her. He broke into a + giggling laugh; the surprise was almost too much for his feeble mind and + body. His hands reached and clutched hers. “Liddy! Liddy!” he whispered, + then added peevishly, “the bread’s sour, an’ the boneset and camomile’s no + good.... Ain’t tomorrow bakin’-day?” he added. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dad,” she said, smoothing his hands. + </p> + <p> + “What damned—liars—they be—Liddy! You’re my gel, ain’t + ye?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dad. I’ll make some boneset liquor now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” he said, with childish eagerness and a weak, wild smile. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it—that’s it.” + </p> + <p> + She was about to rise, but he caught her shoulder. “I bin a good dad to + ye, hain’t I, Liddy?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Always.” + </p> + <p> + “Never had no ma but Manette, did ye?” + </p> + <p> + “Never, dad.” + </p> + <p> + “What danged liars they be!” he said, chuckling. She kissed him, and moved + away to the fire to pour hot water and whisky on the herbs. + </p> + <p> + His eyes followed her proudly, shining like wet glass in the sun. He + laughed—such a wheezing, soundless laugh! + </p> + <p> + “He! he! he! I ain’t no—durn—fool—bless—the Lord!” + he said. + </p> + <p> + Then the shining look in his eyes became a grey film, and the girl turned + round suddenly, for the long, wheezy breathing had stopped. She ran to + him, and, lifting up his head, saw the look that makes even the fool seem + wise in his cold stillness. Then she sat down on the floor, laid her head + against the arm of his chair, and wept. + </p> + <p> + It was very quiet inside. From without there came the twang of an axe, and + a man’s voice talking to his horse. When the man came in, he lifted the + girl up, and, to comfort her, bade her go look at a picture hanging in her + little room. After she was gone he lifted the body, put it on a couch, and + cared for it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PLUNDERER + </h2> + <p> + It was no use: men might come and go before her, but Kitty Cline had eyes + for only one man. Pierre made no show of liking her, and thought, at + first, that hers was a passing fancy. He soon saw differently. There was + that look in her eyes which burns conviction as deep as the furnace from + which it comes: the hot, shy, hungering look of desire; most childlike, + painfully infinite. He would rather have faced the cold mouth of a pistol; + for he felt how it would end. He might be beyond wish to play the lover, + but he knew that every man can endure being loved. He also knew that some + are possessed—a dream, a spell, what you will—for their life + long. Kitty Cline was one of these. + </p> + <p> + He thought he must go away, but he did not. From the hour he decided to + stay misfortune began. Willie Haslam, the clerk at the Company’s Post, had + learned a trick or two at cards in the east, and imagined that he could, + as he said himself, “roast the cock o’ the roost”—meaning Pierre. He + did so for one or two evenings, and then Pierre had a sudden increase of + luck (or design), and the lad, seeing no chance of redeeming the I O U, + representing two years’ salary, went down to the house where Kitty Cline + lived, and shot himself on the door-step. + </p> + <p> + He had had the misfortune to prefer Kitty to the other girls at Guidon + Hill—though Nellie Sanger would have been as much to him, if Kitty + had been easier to win. The two things together told hard against Pierre. + Before, he might have gone; in the face of difficulty he certainly would + not go. Willie Haslam’s funeral was a public function: he was young, + innocent-looking, handsome, and the people did not know what Pierre would + not tell now—that he had cheated grossly at cards. Pierre was sure, + before Liddall, the surveyor, told him, that a movement was apace to give + him trouble—possibly fatal. + </p> + <p> + “You had better go,” said Liddall. “There’s no use tempting Providence.” + </p> + <p> + “They are tempting the devil,” was the cool reply; “and that is not all + joy, as you shall see.” + </p> + <p> + He stayed. For a time there was no demonstration on either side. He came + and went through the streets, and was found at his usual haunts, to + observers as cool and nonchalant as ever. He was a changed man, however. + He never got away from the look in Kitty Cline’s eyes. He felt the thing + wearing on him, and he hesitated to speculate on the result; but he knew + vaguely that it would end in disaster. There is a kind of corrosion which + eats the granite out of the blood, and leaves fever. + </p> + <p> + “What is the worst thing that can happen a man, eh?” he said to Liddall + one day, after having spent a few minutes with Kitty Cline. + </p> + <p> + Liddall was an honest man. He knew the world tolerably well. In writing + once to his partner in Montreal he had spoken of Pierre as “an admirable, + interesting scoundrel.” Once when Pierre called him “mon ami,” and asked + him to come and spend an evening in his cottage, he said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I will go. But—pardon me—not as your friend. Let us be + plain with each other. I never met a man of your stamp before—” + </p> + <p> + “A professional gambler—yes? Bien?” + </p> + <p> + “You interest me; I like you; you have great cleverness—” + </p> + <p> + “A priest once told me I had a great brain-there is a difference. Well?” + </p> + <p> + “You are like no man I ever met before. Yours is a life like none I ever + knew. I would rather talk with you than with any other man in the country, + and yet—” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you would not take me to your home? That is all right. I expect + nothing. I accept the terms. I know what I am and what you are. I like men + who are square. You would go out of your way to do me a good turn.” + </p> + <p> + It was on his tongue to speak of Katy Cline, but he hesitated: it was not + fair to the girl, he thought, though what he had intended was for her + good. He felt he had no right to assume that Liddall knew how things were. + The occasion slipped by. + </p> + <p> + But the same matter had been in his mind when, later, he asked, “What is + the worst thing that can happen to a man?” + </p> + <p> + Liddall looked at him long, and then said: “To stand between two fires.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre smiled: it was an answer after his own heart. Liddall remembered it + very well in the future. + </p> + <p> + “What is the thing to do in such a case?” Pierre asked. + </p> + <p> + “It is not good to stand still.” + </p> + <p> + “But what if you are stunned, or do not care?” + </p> + <p> + “You should care. It is not wise to strain a situation.” + </p> + <p> + Pierre rose, walked up and down the room once or twice, then stood still, + his arms folded, and spoke in a low tone. “Once in the Rockies I was lost. + I crept into a cave at night. I knew it was the nest of some wild animal; + but I was nearly dead with hunger and fatigue. I fell asleep. When I woke—it + was towards morning—I saw two yellow stars glaring where the mouth + of the cave had been. They were all hate: like nothing you could imagine: + passion as it is first made—yes. There was also a rumbling sound. It + was terrible, and yet I was not scared. Hate need not disturb you.—I + am a quick shot. I killed that mountain lion, and I ate the haunch of deer + I dragged from under her....” + </p> + <p> + He turned now, and, facing the doorway, looked out upon the village, to + the roof of a house which they both knew. “Hate,” he said, “is not the + most wonderful thing. I saw a woman look once as though she could lose the + whole world—and her own soul. She was a good woman. The man was bad—most: + he never could be anything else. A look like that breaks the nerve. It is + not amusing. In time the man goes to pieces. But before that comes he is + apt to do strange things. Eh-so!” + </p> + <p> + He sat down, and, with his finger, wrote musingly in the dust upon the + table. + </p> + <p> + Liddall looked keenly at him, and replied more brusquely than he felt: “Do + you think it fair to stay—fair to her?” + </p> + <p> + “What if I should take her with me?” Pierre flashed a keen, searching look + after the words. + </p> + <p> + “It would be useless devilry.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us drink,” said Pierre, as he came to his feet quickly: “then for the + House of Lords” (the new and fashionable tavern). + </p> + <p> + They separated in the street, and Pierre went to the House of Lords alone. + He found a number of men gathered before a paper pasted on a pillar of the + veranda. Hearing his own name, he came nearer. A ranch man was reading + aloud an article from a newspaper printed two hundred miles away. The + article was headed, “A Villainous Plunderer.” It had been written by + someone at Guidon Hill. All that was discreditable in Pierre’s life it set + forth with rude clearness; he was credited with nothing pardonable. In the + crowd there were mutterings unmistakable to Pierre. He suddenly came among + them, caught a revolver from his pocket, and shot over the reader’s + shoulder six times into the pasted strip of newspaper. + </p> + <p> + The men dropped back. They were not prepared for warlike measures at the + moment. Pierre leaned his back against the pillar and waited. His silence + and coolness, together with an iron fierceness in his face, held them from + instant demonstration against him; but he knew that he must face active + peril soon. He pocketed his revolver and went up the hill to the house of + Kitty Cline’s mother. It was the first time he had ever been there. At the + door he hesitated, but knocked presently, and was admitted by Kitty, who, + at sight of him, turned faint with sudden joy, and grasped the lintel to + steady herself. + </p> + <p> + Pierre quietly caught her about the waist, and shut the door. She + recovered, and gently disengaged herself. He made no further advance, and + they stood looking at each other for a minute: he, as one who had come to + look at something good he was never to see again; she, as at something she + hoped to see for ever. They had never before been where no eyes could + observe them. He ruled his voice to calmness. + </p> + <p> + “I am going away,” he said, “and I have come to say good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes never wavered from his. Her voice was scarce above a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you go? Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “I have been here too long. I am what they call a villain and a plunderer. + I am going to-mon Dieu, I do not know!” He shrugged his shoulders, and + smiled with a sort of helpless disdain. + </p> + <p> + She leaned her hands on the table before her. Her voice was still that + low, clear murmur. + </p> + <p> + “What people say doesn’t matter.” She staked her all upon her words. She + must speak them, though she might hate herself afterwards. “Are you going—alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Where I may have to go I must travel alone.” + </p> + <p> + He could not meet her eyes now; he turned his head away. He almost hoped + she would not understand. “Sit down,” he added; “I want to tell you of my + life.” + </p> + <p> + He believed that telling it as he should, she would be horror-stricken, + and that the deep flame would die out of her eyes. Neither he nor she knew + how long they sat there, he telling with grim precision of the life he had + led. Her hands were clasped before her, and she shuddered once or twice, + so that he paused; but she asked him firmly to go on. + </p> + <p> + When all was told he stood up. He could not see her face, but he heard her + say: + </p> + <p> + “You have forgotten many things that were not bad. Let me say them.” She + named things that would have done honour to a better man. He was standing + in the moonlight that came through the window. She stepped forward, her + hands quivering out to him. “Oh, Pierre,” she said, “I know why you tell + me this: but it makes no difference-none! I will go with you wherever you + go.” + </p> + <p> + He caught her hands in his. She was stronger than he was now. Her eyes + mastered him. A low cry broke from him, and he drew her almost fiercely + into his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Pierre! Pierre!” was all she could say. + </p> + <p> + He kissed her again and again upon the mouth. As he did so, he heard + footsteps and muffled voices without. Putting her quickly from him, he + sprang towards the door, threw it open, closed it behind him, and drew his + revolvers. A half-dozen men faced him. Two bullets whistled by his head, + and lodged in the door. Then he fired swiftly, shot after shot, and three + men fell. His revolvers were empty. There were three men left. The case + seemed all against him now, but just here a shot, and then another, came + from the window, and a fourth man fell. Pierre sprang upon one, the other + turned and ran. There was a short sharp struggle: then Pierre rose up—alone. + </p> + <p> + The girl stood in the doorway. “Come, my dear,” he said, “you must go with + me now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Pierre,” she cried, a mad light in her face, “I have killed men too—for + you.” + </p> + <p> + Together they ran down the hillside, and made for the stables of the Fort. + People were hurrying through the long street of the town, and torches were + burning, but they came by a roundabout to the stables safely. Pierre was + about to enter, when a man came out. It was Liddall. He kept his horses + there, and he had saddled one, thinking that Pierre might need it. + </p> + <p> + There were quick words of explanation, and then, “Must the girl go too?” + he asked. “It will increase the danger—besides—” + </p> + <p> + “I am going wherever he goes,” she interrupted hoarsely. “I have killed + men; he and I are the same now.” + </p> + <p> + Without a word Liddall turned back, threw a saddle on another horse, and + led it out quickly. “Which way?” he asked; “and where shall I find the + horses?” + </p> + <p> + “West to the mountains. The horses you will find at Tete Blanche Hill, if + we get there. If not, there is money under the white pine at my cottage. + Goodbye!” + </p> + <p> + They galloped away. But there were mounted men in the main street, and + one, well ahead of the others, was making towards the bridge over which + they must pass. He reached it before they did, and set his horse crosswise + in its narrow entrance. Pierre urged his mare in front of the girl’s, and + drove straight at the head and shoulders of the obstructing horse. His was + the heavier animal, and it bore the other down. The rider fired as he + fell, but missed, and, in an instant, Pierre and the girl were over. The + fallen man fired the second time, but again missed. They had a fair start, + but the open prairie was ahead of them, and there was no chance to hide. + Riding must do all, for their pursuers were in full cry. For an hour they + rode hard. They could see their hunters not very far in the rear. Suddenly + Pierre started and sniffed the air. + </p> + <p> + “The prairie’s on fire,” he said exultingly, defiantly. Almost as he + spoke, clouds ran down the horizon, and then the sky lighted up. The fire + travelled with incredible swiftness: they were hastening to meet it. It + came on wave-like, hurrying down at the right and the left as if to close + in on them. The girl spoke no word; she had no fear: what Pierre did she + would do. He turned round to see his pursuers: they had wheeled and were + galloping back the way they came. His horse and hers were travelling neck + and neck. He looked at her with an intense, eager gaze. + </p> + <p> + “Will you ride on?” he asked eagerly. “We are between two fires.” He + smiled, remembering his words to Liddall. + </p> + <p> + “Ride on,” she urged in a strong, clear voice, a kind of wild triumph in + it. “You shall not go alone.” + </p> + <p> + There ran into his eyes now the same infinite look that had been in hers—that + had conquered him. The flame rolling towards them was not brighter or + hotter. + </p> + <p> + “For heaven or hell, my girl!” he cried, and they drove their horses on—on. + </p> + <p> + Far behind upon a Divide the flying hunters from Guidon Hill paused for a + moment. They saw with hushed wonder and awe a man and woman, dark and + weird against the red light, ride madly into the flickering surf of fire. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + A human life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of time + Advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth + All humour in him had a strain of the sardonic + Bad turns good sometimes, when you know the how + Don’t be too honest + Every shot that kills ricochets + Fear of one’s own wife is the worst fear in the world + Have you ever felt the hand of your own child in yours + He never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it + How can you judge the facts if you don’t know the feeling? + In her heart she never can defy the world as does a man + Liars all men may be, but that’s wid wimmin or landlords + Memory is man’s greatest friend and worst enemy + Men are like dogs—they worship him who beats them + Not good to have one thing in the head all the time + Put the matter on your own hearthstone + Remember the sorrow of thine own wife + Secret of life: to keep your own commandments + She valued what others found useless + She had not suffered that sickness, social artifice + Solitude fixes our hearts immovably on things + Some people are rough with the poor—and proud + Some wise men are fools, one way or another + They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly + Think with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman + When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil + Women are half saints, half fools + Youth hungers for the vanities +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Romany of the Snows, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMANY OF THE SNOWS *** + +***** This file should be named 6185-h.htm or 6185-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/8/6185/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Romany of the Snows + Being A Continuation Of The Personal Histories Of "Pierre And His + People" And The Last Existing Records Of Pretty Pierre + + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Last Updated: March 12, 2009 +Release Date: November 17, 2006 [EBook #6185] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMANY OF THE SNOWS *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS, Complete + +BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS +PEOPLE" AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE + + +By Gilbert Parker + + + CONTENTS + + Volume 1. + ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS + A LOVELY BULLY + THE FILIBUSTER + THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING + + Volume 2. + MALACHI + THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE + THE RED PATROL + THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN + AT BAMBER'S BOOM + + Volume 3. + THE BRIDGE HOUSE + THE EPAULETTES + THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER + THE FINDING OF FINGALL + THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE + + Volume 4. + LITTLE BABICHE + AT POINT O' BUGLES + THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA + THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS + THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR + + Volume 5. + THE CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" + A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + THE PLUNDERER + + + + + To SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE. + + MY DEAR SIR WILLIAM, + + To the public it will seem fitting that these new tales of "Pierre + and His People" should be inscribed to one whose notable career is + inseparably associated with the life and development of the Far + North. + + But there is a deeper and more personal significance in this + dedication, for some of the stories were begotten in late gossip by + your fireside; and furthermore, my little book is given a kind of + distinction, in having on its fore-page the name of one well known + as a connoisseur of art and a lover of literature. + + Believe me, + + DEAR SIR WILLIAM, + + Sincerely yours, + + GILBERT PARKER. + + 7 PARK PLACE. + ST. JAMES'S. + LONDON. S. W. + + + +INTRODUCTION + +It can hardly be said that there were two series of Pierre stories. +There never was but one series, in fact. Pierre moved through all the +thirty-nine stories of Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows +without any thought on my part of putting him out of existence in one +series and bringing him to life again in another. The publication of +the stories was continuous, and at the time that Pierre and His People +appeared several of those which came between the covers of A Romany of +the Snows were passing through the pages of magazines in England and +America. All of the thirty-nine stories might have appeared in one +volume under the title of Pierre and His People, but they were published +in two volumes with different titles in England, and in three volumes +in America, simply because there was enough material for the two and the +three volumes. In America The Adventurer of the North was broken up into +two volumes at the urgent request of my then publishers, Messrs. Stone & +Kimball, who had the gift of producing beautiful books, but perhaps had +not the same gift of business. These two American volumes succeeding +Pierre were published under the title of An Adventurer of the North and +A Romany of the Snows respectively. Now, the latter title, A Romany of +the Snows, was that which I originally chose for the volume published +in England as An Adventurer of the North. I was persuaded to reject the +title, A Romany of the Snows, by my English publisher, and I have +never forgiven myself since for being so weak. If a publisher had the +infallible instinct for these things he would not be a publisher--he +would be an author; and though an author may make mistakes like +everybody else, the average of his hits will be far higher than the +average of his misses in such things. The title, An Adventurer of the +North, is to my mind cumbrous and rough, and difficult in the mouth. +Compare it with some of the stories within the volume itself: for +instance, The Going of the White Swan, A Lovely Bully, At Bamber's Boom, +At Point o' Bugles, The Pilot of Belle Amour, The Spoil of the Puma, A +Romany of the Snows, and The Finding of Fingall. There it was, however; +I made the mistake and it sticks; but the book now will be published in +this subscription edition under the title first chosen by me, A Romany +of the Snows. It really does express what Pierre was. + +Perhaps some of the stories in A Romany of the Snows have not the +sentimental simplicity of some of the earlier stories in Pierre and His +People, which take hold where a deeper and better work might not seize +the general public; but, reading these later stories after twenty years, +I feel that I was moving on steadily to a larger, firmer command of my +material, and was getting at closer grips with intimate human things. +There is some proof of what I say in the fact that one of the stories in +A Romany of the Snows, called The Going of the White Swan, appropriately +enough published originally in Scribner's Magazine, has had an +extraordinary popularity. It has been included in the programmes of +reciters from the Murrumbidgee to the Vaal, from John O'Groat's to +Land's End, and is now being published as a separate volume in England +and America. It has been dramatised several times, and is more alive +to-day than it was when it was published nearly twenty years ago. Almost +the same may be said of The Three Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue. + +It has been said that, apart from the colour, form, and setting, the +incidents of these Pierre stories might have occurred anywhere. That +is true beyond a doubt, and it exactly represents my attitude of mind. +Every human passion, every incident springing out of a human passion +to-day, had its counterpart in the time of Amenhotep. The only +difference is in the setting, is in the language or dialect which is the +vehicle of expression, and in race and character, which are the media of +human idiosyncrasy. There is nothing new in anything that one may write, +except the outer and visible variation of race, character, and country, +which reincarnates the everlasting human ego and its scena. + +The atmosphere of a story or novel is what temperament is to a man. +Atmosphere cannot be created; it is not a matter of skill; it is a +matter of personality, of the power of visualisation, of feeling for +the thing which the mind sees. It has been said that my books possess +atmosphere. This has often been said when criticism has been more or +less acute upon other things; but I think that in all my experience +there has never been a critic who has not credited my books with that +quality; and I should say that Pierre and His People and A Romany of the +Snows have an atmosphere in which the beings who make the stories +live seem natural to their environment. It is this quality which gives +vitality to the characters themselves. Had I not been able to create +atmosphere which would have given naturalness to Pierre and his friends, +some of the characters, and many of the incidents, would have seemed +monstrosities--melodramatic episodes merely. The truth is, that while +the episode, which is the first essential of a short story, was always +in the very forefront of my imagination, the character or characters +in the episode meant infinitely more to me. To my mind the episode was +always the consequence of character. That almost seems a paradox; but +apart from the phenomena of nature, as possible incidents in a book, +the episodes which make what are called "human situations" are, in most +instances, the sequence of character and are incidental to the law of +the character set in motion. As I realise it now, subconsciously, my +mind and imagination were controlled by this point of view in the days +of the writing of Pierre and His People. + +In the life and adventures of Pierre and his people I came, as I think, +to a certain command of my material, without losing real sympathy with +the simple nature of things. Dexterity has its dangers, and one of its +dangers is artificiality. It is very difficult to be skilful and to ring +true. If I have not wholly succeeded in A Romany of the Snows, I think I +have not wholly failed, as the continued appeal of a few of the stories +would seem to show. + + + + +ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS + +"Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands I've seen along the sayshore, +and up to me half-ways I've been in wan, wid a double-and-twist in the +rope to pull me out; but a suckin' sand in the open plain--aw, Trader, +aw! the like o' that niver a bit saw I." + +So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing was talked of in his presence. + +"Well, I tell you it's true, and they're not three miles from Fort +O'Glory. The Company's--[Hudson's Bay Company]--men don't talk about +it--what's the use! Travellers are few that way, and you can't get the +Indians within miles of them. Pretty Pierre knows all about them--better +than anyone else almost. He'll stand by me in it--eh, Pierre?" + +Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adventurer, took no notice, and was +silent for a time, intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mowley the +trapper said: "Pierre's gone back on you, Trader. P'r'aps ye haven't +paid him for the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me--my +treat--that's the game!" + +"Aw, the like o' that," added Macavoy reproachfully. "Aw, yer tongue +to the roof o' yer mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but that's wid +wimmin or landlords. But, Pierre, aff another man's bat like that--aw, +Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o' yer pipe." + +Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he +did so; but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting +the three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment +musingly; then he lit his cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench +where he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire as it were. + +"I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company's post there. It was the fall of +the year, when you feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the +air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like a woman or a priest? +Mais, no. The seasons are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad; in +the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to do. This matter was in +the fall. I felt that I must move. Yet, what to do? There was the thing. +Cards, of course. But that's only for times, not for all seasons. So I +was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse--Tophet, black as a +coal, all raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. His legs worked +like piston-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where to go or what to +do. So we used to sit at the Post loafing: in the daytime watching the +empty plains all panting for travellers, like a young bride waiting her +husband for the first time." + +Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an unctuous spirit, and +his heart was soft for women--so soft that he never had had one on his +conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many. But +that was an amiable weakness in a strong man. "Aw, Pierre," he +said coaxingly, "kape it down; aisy, aisy. Me heart's goin' like a +trip-hammer at thought av it; aw yis, aw yis, Pierre." + +"Well, it was like that to me--all sun and a sweet sting in the air. At +night to sit and tell tales and such things; and perhaps a little brown +brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the cattle--the same old +game. Of course, there was the wife of Hilton the factor--fine, always +fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good friends, Ida and me. I had +a hand in her wedding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little girl. +We could talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she had +never guessed at evil. She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and +understand without words. A face was a book to her. + +"Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing outside the Post, when +we saw someone ride over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes. I +cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut +against the sky, that they looked very large and peculiar--there was +something in the air to magnify. They stopped for a minute on the top of +the Divide, and it seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at +the farthest north--the place of legends. But, of course, it was only a +traveller like ourselves, for in a half-hour she was with us. + +"Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not try to hide it; she +dressed so for ease. She would make a man's heart leap in his mouth--if +he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley there." + +Pierre's last three words had a touch of irony, for he knew that the +Trapper had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed +that way, and a bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled +sourly; but Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his +pipe-stem luxuriously. + +"Aw now, Pierre--all me little failin's--aw!" he protested. + +Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and, +cherishing his cigarette, presently continued: + +"She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff that she could hardly +get from her horse; and the horse too was ready to drop. Handsome enough +she looked, for all that, in man's clothes and a peaked cap, with +a pistol in her belt. She wasn't big built--just a feathery kind of +sapling--but she was set fair on her legs like a man, and a hand that +was as good as I have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with a +horse. Well, what was the trouble?--for I saw there was trouble. Her +eyes had a hunted look, and her nose breathed like a deer's in the +chase. All at once, when she saw Hilton's wife, a cry came from her and +she reached out her hands. What would women of that sort do? They were +both of a kind. They got into each other's arms. After that there was +nothing for us men but to wait. All women are the same, and Hilton's +wife was like the rest. She must get the secret first; then the men +should know. We had to wait an hour. Then Hilton's wife beckoned to us. +We went inside. The girl was asleep. There was something in the touch +of Hilton's wife like sleep itself--like music. It was her voice--that +touch. She could not speak with her tongue, but her hands and face were +words and music. Bien, there was the girl asleep, all clear of dust +and stain; and that fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet, +so quiet. Enfin, the real story--for how she slept there does not +matter--but it was good to see when we knew the story." + +The Trapper was laughing silently to himself to hear Pierre in this +romantic mood. A woman's hand--it was the game for a boy, not an +adventurer; for the Trapper's only creed was that women, like deer, were +spoils for the hunter. Pierre's keen eye noted this, but he was above +petty anger. He merely said: "If a man have an eye to see behind the +face, he understands the foolish laugh of a man, or the hand of a good +woman, and that is much. Hilton's wife told us all. She had rode two +hundred miles from the south-west, and was making for Fort Micah, sixty +miles farther north. For what? She had loved a man against the will of +her people. There had been a feud, and Garrison--that was the lover's +name--was the last on his own side. There was trouble at a Company's +post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. Men say he was right to shoot him, +for a woman's name must be safe up here. Besides, the half-breed drew +first. Well, Garrison was tried, and must go to jail for a year. At the +end of that time he would be free. The girl Janie knew the day. Word +had come to her. She made everything ready. She knew her brothers were +watching--her three brothers and two other men who had tried to get her +love. She knew also that they five would carry on the feud against the +one man. So one night she took the best horse on the ranch and started +away towards Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she got to Guidon Hill +after two days' hard riding--enough to kill a man, and over fifty yet to +do. She was sure her brothers were on her track. But if she could get to +Fort Micah, and be married to Garrison before they came; she wanted no +more. + +"There were only two horses of use at Hilton's Post then; all the rest +were away, or not fit for hard travel. There was my Tophet, and a lean +chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and not an ounce of loose skin on +him. There was but one way: the girl must get there. Allons, what is +the good? What is life without these things? The girl loves the man: she +must have him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and his wife and me +at the Post, and Hilton was lame from a fall, and one arm in a sling. +If the brothers followed, well, Hilton could not interfere--he was a +Company's man; but for myself, as I said, I was hungry for adventure, +I had an ache in my blood for something. I was tingling to the toes, +my heart was thumping in my throat. All the cords of my legs were +straightening as if I was in the saddle. + +"She slept for three hours. I got the two horses saddled. Who could tell +but she might need help? I had nothing to do; I knew the shortest way to +Fort Micah, every foot--and then it is good to be ready for all things. +I told Hilton's wife what I had done. She was glad. She made a gesture +at me as to a brother, and then began to put things in a bag for us to +carry. She had settled all how it was to be. She had told the girl. +You see, a man may be--what is it they call me?--a plunderer, and yet a +woman will trust him, comme ca!" + +"Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre; but she knew yer hand and yer tongue niver wint +agin a woman, Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw swate, swate, she was, wid a +heart--a heart, Hilton's wife, aw yis!" + +Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. "The girl waked after three hours +with a start. Her hand caught at her heart. 'Oh,' she said, still +staring at us, 'I thought that they had come!' A little after she and +Hilton's wife went to another room. All at once there was a sound of +horses outside, and then a knock at the door, and four men come in. They +were the girl's hunters. + +"It was hard to tell what to do all in a minute; but I saw at once the +best thing was to act for all, and to get all the men inside the house. +So I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that I was a great man in +the Company. I ordered Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not +giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the old brown brandy, +wondering all the time what could be done. There was no sound from the +other room, though I thought I heard a door open once. Hilton played the +game well, and showed nothing when I ordered him about, and agreed word +for word with me when I said no girl had come, laughing when they told +why they were after her. More than one of them did not believe at first; +but, pshaw, what have I been doing all my life to let such fellows doubt +me? So the end of it was that I got them all inside the house. There was +one bad thing--their horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to me. +They had only rode them a few miles--they had stole or bought them at +the first ranch to the west of the Post. I could not make up my mind +what to do. But it was clear I must keep them quiet till something +shaped. + +"They were all drinking brandy when Hilton's wife come into the room. +Her face was, mon Dieu! so innocent, so childlike. She stared at the +men; and then I told them she was deaf and dumb, and I told her why they +had come. Voila, it was beautiful--like nothing you ever saw. She shook +her head so innocent, and then told them like a child that they were +wicked to chase a girl. I could have kissed her feet. Thunder, how she +fooled them! She said, would they not search the house? She said all +through me, on her fingers and by signs. And I told them at once. But +she told me something else--that the girl had slipped out as the last +man came in, had mounted the chestnut, and would wait for me by the iron +spring, a quarter of a mile away. There was the danger that some one of +the men knew the finger-talk, so she told me this in signs mixed up with +other sentences. + +"Good! There was now but one thing--for me to get away. So I said, +laughing, to one of the men. 'Come, and we will look after the horses, +and the others can search the place with Hilton.' So we went out to +where the horses were tied to the railing, and led them away to the +corral. + +"Of course you will understand how I did it. I clapped a hand on his +mouth, put a pistol at his head, and gagged and tied him. Then I got my +Tophet, and away I went to the spring. The girl was waiting. There were +few words. I gripped her hand, gave her another pistol, and then we +got away on a fine moonlit trail. We had not gone a mile when I heard a +faint yell far behind. My game had been found out. There was nothing +to do but to ride for it now, and maybe to fight. But fighting was not +good; for I might be killed, and then the girl would be caught just the +same. We rode on--such a ride, the horses neck and neck, their hoofs +pounding the prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, a hell-to-split +gait. I knew they were after us, though I saw them but once on the crest +of a Divide about three miles behind. Hour after hour like that, with +ten minutes' rest now and then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We +hardly spoke to each other; but, nom de Dieu! my heart was warm to this +girl who had rode a hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours. Just +before dawn, when I was beginning to think that we should easy win +the race if the girl could but hold out, if it did not kill her, the +chestnut struck a leg into the crack of the prairie, and horse and girl +spilt on the ground together. She could hardly move, she was so weak, +and her face was like death. I put a pistol to the chestnut's head, and +ended it. The girl stooped and kissed the poor beast's neck, but spoke +nothing. As I helped her on my Tophet I put my lips to the sleeve of her +dress. Mother of Heaven! what could a man do--she was so dam' brave. + +"Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at the swell of the prairie over +the Jumping Sandhills. They lay quiet and shining in the green-brown +plain; but I knew that there was a churn beneath which could set those +swells of sand in motion, and make glory-to-God of an army. Who can tell +what it is? A flood under the surface, a tidal river-what? No man knows. +But they are sea monsters on the land. Every morning at sunrise they +begin to eddy and roll--and who ever saw a stranger sight? Bien, I +looked back. There were those four pirates coming on, about three miles +away. What was there to do? The girl and myself on my blown horse were +too much. Then a great idea come to me. I must reach and cross the +Jumping Sandhills before sunrise. It was one deadly chance. + +"When we got to the edge of the sand they were almost a mile behind. I +was all sick to my teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the silt. Sacre, +how I watched the dawn! Slow, slow, we dragged over that velvet powder. +As we reached the farther side I could feel it was beginning to move. +The sun was showing like the lid of an eye along the plain. I looked +back. All four horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards us. By the +time we touched the brown-green prairie on the farther side the sand was +rolling behind us. The girl had not looked back. She seemed too dazed. +I jumped from the horse, and told her that she must push on alone to the +Fort, that Tophet could not carry both, that I should be in no danger. +She looked at me so deep--ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped and kissed +me between the eyes--I have never forgot. I struck Tophet, and she was +gone to her happiness; for before 'lights out!' she reached the Fort and +her lover's arms. + +"But I stood looking back on the Jumping Sandhills. So, was there ever +a sight like that--those hills gone like a smelting-floor, the sunrise +spotting it with rose and yellow, and three horses and their riders +fighting what cannot be fought?--What could I do? They would have got +the girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led them across, and they +would have killed me if they could. Only one cried out, and then but +once, in a long shriek. But after, all three were quiet as they fought, +until they were gone where no man could see, where none cries out so +we can hear. The last thing I saw was a hand stretching up out of the +sands." + +There was a long pause, painful to bear. The Trader sat with eyes fixed +humbly as a dog's on Pierre. At last Macavoy said: "She kissed ye, +Pierre, aw yis, she did that! Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her +now, Pierre?" + +But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer. + + + + +A LOVELY BULLY + +He was seven feet and fat. He came to Fort O'Angel at Hudson's Bay, an +immense slip of a lad, very much in the way, fond of horses, a wonderful +hand at wrestling, pretending a horrible temper, threatening tragedies +for all who differed from him, making the Fort quake with his rich +roar, and playing the game of bully with a fine simplicity. In winter he +fattened, in summer he sweated, at all times he ate eloquently. + +It was a picture to see him with the undercut of a haunch of deer or +buffalo, or with a whole prairie-fowl on his plate, his eyes measuring +it shrewdly, his coat and waistcoat open, and a clear space about +him--for he needed room to stretch his mighty limbs, and his necessity +was recognised by all. + +Occasionally he pretended to great ferocity, but scowl he ever so much, +a laugh kept idling in his irregular bushy beard, which lifted about his +face in the wind like a mane, or made a kind of underbrush through which +his blunt fingers ran at hide-and-seek. + +He was Irish, and his name was Macavoy. In later days, when Fort O'Angel +was invaded by settlers, he had his time of greatest importance. + +He had been useful to the Chief Trader at the Fort in the early days, +and having the run of the Fort and the reach of his knife, was little +likely to discontinue his adherence. But he ate and drank with all the +dwellers at the Post, and abused all impartially. "Malcolm," said he to +the Trader, "Malcolm, me glutton o' the H.B.C., that wants the Far North +for your footstool--Malcolm, you villain, it's me grief that I know you, +and me thumb to me nose in token." Wiley and Hatchett, the principal +settlers, he abused right and left, and said, "Wasn't there land in the +East and West, that you steal the country God made for honest men--you +robbers o' the wide world! Me tooth on the Book, and I tell you what, +it's only me charity that kapes me from spoilin' ye. For a wink of me +eye, an' away you'd go, leaving your tails behind you--and pass that +shoulder of bear, you pirates, till I come to it sideways, like a hog to +war." + +He was even less sympathetic with Bareback the chief and his braves. +"Sons o' Anak y'are; here today and away to-morrow, like the clods of +the valley--and that's your portion, Bareback. It's the word o' the +Pentytook--in pieces you go, like a potter's vessel. Don't shrug your +shoulders at me, Bareback, you pig, or you'll think that Ballzeboob's +loose on the mat. But take a sup o' this whisky, while you swear wid +your hand on your chest, 'Amin' to the words o' Tim Macavoy." + +Beside Macavoy, Pierre, the notorious, was a child in height. Up to +the time of the half-breed's coming the Irishman had been the most +outstanding man at Fort O'Angel, and was sure of a good-natured homage, +acknowledged by him with a jovial tyranny. + +Pierre put a flea in his ear. He was pensively indifferent to him even +in his most royal moments. He guessed the way to bring down the gusto +and pride of this Goliath, but, for a purpose, he took his own time, +nodding indolently to Macavoy when he met him, but avoiding talk with +him. + +Among the Indian maidens Macavoy was like a king or khan; for they count +much on bulk and beauty, and he answered to their standards--especially +to Wonta's. It was a sight to see him of a summer day, sitting in the +shade of a pine, his shirt open, showing his firm brawny chest, his arms +bare, his face shining with perspiration, his big voice gurgling in +his beard, his eyes rolling amiably upon the maidens as they passed or +gathered near demurely, while he declaimed of mighty deeds in patois or +Chinook to the braves. + +Pierre's humour was of the quietest, most subterranean kind. He knew +that Macavoy had not an evil hair in his head; that vanity was his +greatest weakness, and that through him there never would have been +more half-breed population. There was a tradition that he had a wife +somewhere--based upon wild words he had once said when under the +influence of bad liquor; but he had roared his accuser the lie when the +thing was imputed to him. + +At Fort Ste. Anne Pierre had known an old woman, by name of Kitty +Whelan, whose character was all tatters. She had told him that many +years agone she had had a broth of a lad for a husband; but because of +a sharp word or two across the fire, and the toss of a handful of +furniture, he had left her, and she had seen no more of him. "Tall, like +a chimney he was," said she, "and a chest like a wall, so broad, and +a voice like a huntsman's horn, though only a b'y, an' no hair an his +face; an' little I know whether he is dead or alive; but dead belike, +for he's sure to come rap agin' somethin' that'd kill him; for he, the +darlin', was that aisy and gentle, he wouldn't pull his fightin' iron +till he had death in his ribs." + +Pierre had drawn from her that the name of this man whom she had cajoled +into a marriage (being herself twenty years older), and driven to +deserting her afterwards, was Tim Macavoy. She had married Mr. Whelan on +the assumption that Macavoy was dead. But Mr. Whelan had not the nerve +to desert her, and so he departed this life, very loudly lamented by +Mrs. Whelan, who had changed her name with no right to do so. With his +going her mind dwelt greatly upon the virtues of her mighty vanished +Tim: and ill would it be for Tim if she found him. + +Pierre had travelled to Fort O'Angel almost wholly because he had Tim +Macavoy in his mind: in it Mrs. Whelan had only an incidental part; his +plans journeyed beyond her and her lost consort. He was determined on +an expedition to capture Fort Comfort, which had been abandoned by the +great Company, and was now held by a great band of the Shunup Indians. + +Pierre had a taste for conquest for its own sake, though he had no +personal ambition. The love of adventure was deep in him; he adored +sport for its own sake; he had had a long range of experiences--some +discreditable--and now he had determined on a new field for his talent. + +He would establish a kingdom, and resign it. In that case he must have a +man to take his place. He chose Macavoy. + +First he must humble the giant to the earth, then make him into a great +man again, with a new kind of courage. The undoing of Macavoy seemed +a civic virtue. He had a long talk with Wonta, the Indian maiden most +admired by Macavoy. Many a time the Irishman had cast an ogling, rolling +eye on her, and had talked his loudest within her ear-shot, telling of +splendid things he had done: making himself like another Samson as to +the destruction of men, and a Hercules as to the slaying of cattle. + +Wonta had a sense of humour also, and when Pierre told her what was +required of her, she laughed with a quick little gurgle, and showed as +handsome a set of teeth as the half-breed's; which said much for her. +She promised to do as he wished. So it chanced when Macavoy was at his +favourite seat beneath the pine, talking to a gaping audience, Wonta and +a number of Indian girls passed by. Pierre was leaning against a door +smoking, not far away. Macavoy's voice became louder. + +"'Stand them up wan by wan,' says I, 'and give me a leg loose, and a +fist free; and at that--'" + +"At that there was thunder and fire in the sky, and because the great +Macavoy blew his breath over them they withered like the leaves," cried +Wonta, laughing; but her laugh had an edge. + +Macavoy stopped short, open-mouthed, breathing hard in his great beard. +He was astonished at Wonta's raillery; the more so when she presently +snapped her fingers, and the other maidens, laughing, did the same. Some +of the half-breeds snapped their fingers also in sympathy, and shrugged +their shoulders. Wonta came up to him softly, patted him on the head, +and said: "Like Macavoy there is nobody. He is a great brave. He is not +afraid of a coyote, he has killed prairie-hens in numbers as pebbles by +the lakes. He has a breast like a fat ox,"--here she touched the skin of +his broad chest,--"and he will die if you do not fight him." + +Then she drew back, as though in humble dread, and glided away with +the other maidens, Macavoy staring after her, with a blustering kind of +shame in his face. The half-breeds laughed, and, one by one, they got +up, and walked away also. Macavoy looked round: there was no one near +save Pierre, whose eye rested on him lazily. Macavoy got to his feet, +muttering. This was the first time in his experience at Fort O'Angel +that he had been bluffed--and by a girl; one for whom he had a very soft +place in his big heart. Pierre came slowly over to him. + +"I'd have it out with her," said he. "She called you a bully and a +brag." + +"Out with her?" cried Macavoy. "How can ye have it out wid a woman?" + +"Fight her," said Pierre pensively. + +"Fight her? fight her? Holy smoke! How can you fight a woman?" + +"Why, what--do you--fight?" asked Pierre innocently. + +Macavoy grinned in a wild kind of fashion. "Faith, then, y'are a fool. +Bring on the divil an' all his angels, say I, and I'll fight thim where +I stand." + +Pierre ran his fingers down Macavoy's arm, and said "There's time enough +for that. I'd begin with the five." + +"What five, then?" + +"Her half-breed lovers: Big Eye, One Toe, Jo-John, Saucy Boy, and Limber +Legs." + +"Her lovers? Her lovers, is it? Is there truth on y'r tongue?" + +"Go to her father's tent at sunset, and you'll find one or all of them +there." + +"Oh, is that it?" said the Irishman, opening and shutting his fists. +"Then I'll carve their hearts out, an' ate thim wan by wan this night." + +"Come down to Wiley's," said Pierre; "there's better company there than +here." + +Pierre had arranged many things, and had secured partners in his little +scheme for humbling the braggart. He so worked on the other's good +nature that by the time they reached the settler's place, Macavoy was +stretching himself with a big pride. Seated at Wiley's table, with +Hatchett and others near, and drink going about, someone drew the giant +on to talk, and so deftly and with such apparent innocence did Pierre, +by a word here and a nod there, encourage him, that presently he roared +at Wiley and Hatchett: + +"Ye shameless buccaneers that push your way into the tracks of honest +men, where the Company's been three hundred years by the will o' God--if +it wasn't for me, ye Jack Sheppards--" + +Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet with pretended rage, saying +he'd insulted them both, that he was all froth and brawn, and giving him +the lie. + +Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only stare, puffing in his beard, and +drawing in his legs, which had been spread out at angles. He looked from +Wiley to the impassive Pierre. "Buccaneers, you callus," Wiley went +on; "well, we'll have no more of that, or there'll be trouble at Fort +O'Angel." + +"Ah, sure y'are only jokin'," said Macavoy, "for I love ye, ye +scoundrels. It's only me fun." + +"For fun like that you'll pay, ruffian!" said Hatchett, bringing down +his fist on the table with a bang. + +Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, but there was nothing of the +coward in his face. "Oh, well," said he, "I'll be goin', for ye've got +y'r teeth all raspin'." + +As he went the two men laughed after him mockingly. "Wind like a bag," +said Hatchett. "Bone like a marrow-fat pea," added Wiley. + +Macavoy was at the door, but at that he turned. "If ye care to sail +agin' that wind, an' gnaw on that bone, I'd not be sayin' you no." + +"Will to-night do--at sunset?" said Wiley. + +"Bedad, then, me b'ys, sunset'll do--an' not more than two at a time," +he added softly, all the roar gone from his throat. Then he went out, +followed by Pierre. + +Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and laughed a little confusedly. +"What's that he said?" muttered Wiley. "Not more than two at a time, was +it?" + +"That was it. I don't know that it's what we bargained for, after all." +He looked round on the other settlers present, who had been awed by the +childlike, earnest note in Macavoy's last words. They shook their heads +now a little sagely; they weren't so sure that Pierre's little game was +so jovial as it had promised. + +Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much from his giant as yet. In a +little while he had got Macavoy back to his old humour. + +"What was I made for but war!" said the Irishman, "an' by war to kape +thim at peace, wherever I am." Soon he was sufficiently restored in +spirits to go with Pierre to Bareback's lodge, where, sitting at the +tent door, with idlers about, he smoked with the chief and his braves. +Again Pierre worked upon him adroitly, and again he became loud in +speech, and grandly patronising. + +"I've stood by ye like a father, ye loafers," he said, "an' I give you +my word, ye howlin' rogues--" + +Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came up suddenly from the ground, +and the chief said fiercely: "You speak crooked things. We are no +rogues. We will fight." + +Macavoy's face ran red to his hair. He scratched his head a little +foolishly, and gathered himself up. "Sure, 'twas only me tasin', +darlins," he said, "but I'll be comin' again, when y'are not so narvis." +He turned to go away. + +Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the Indian touched the giant on the +arm. "Will you fight?" said he. + +"Not all o' ye at once," said Macavoy slowly, running his eye carefully +along the half-dozen; "not more than three at a toime," he added with +a simple sincerity, his voice again gone like the dove's. "At what time +will it be convaynyint for ye?" he asked. + +"At sunset," said the chief, "before the Fort." Macavoy nodded and +walked away with Pierre, whose glance of approval at the Indians did not +make them thoroughly happy. + +To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He had already three engagements +of violence for sunset. Pierre directed their steps by a roundabout to +the Company's stores, and again there was a distinct improvement in the +giant's spirits. Here at least he could be himself, he thought, here +no one should say him nay. As if nerved by the idea, he plunged at once +into boisterous raillery of the Chief Trader. "Oh, ho," he began, "me +freebooter, me captain av the looters av the North!" The Trader snarled +at him. "What d'ye mean, by such talk to me, sir? I've had enough--we've +all had enough--of your brag and bounce; for you're all sweat and +swill-pipe, and I give you this for your chewing, that though by the +Company's rules I can't go out and fight you, you may have your pick of +my men for it. I'll take my pay for your insults in pounded flesh--Irish +pemmican!" + +Macavoy's face became mottled with sudden rage. He roared, as, perhaps, +he had never roared before: "Are ye all gone mad-mad-mad? I was jokin' +wid ye, whin I called ye this or that. But by the swill o' me pipe, and +the sweat o' me skin, I'll drink the blood o' yees, Trader, me darlin'. +An' all I'll ask is, that ye mate me to-night whin the rest o' the pack +is in front o' the Fort--but not more than four o' yees at a time--for +little scrawney rats as y'are, too many o' yees wad be in me way." He +wheeled and strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently. + +"He's a great bully that, isn't he, Trader? There'll be fun in front of +the Fort to-night. For he's only bragging, of course--eh?" + +The Trader nodded with no great assurance, and then Pierre said as a +parting word: "You'll be there, of course--only four av ye!" and hurried +out after Macavoy, humming to himself-- + + "For the King said this, and the Queen said that, + But he walked away with their army, O!" + +So far Pierre's plan had worked even better than he expected, though +Macavoy's moods had not been altogether after his imaginings. He drew +alongside the giant, who had suddenly grown quiet again. Macavoy turned +and looked down at Pierre with the candour of a schoolboy, and his voice +was very low: + +"It's a long time ago, I'm thinkin'," he said, "since I lost me +frinds--ages an' ages ago. For me frinds are me inimies now, an' that +makes a man old. But I'll not say that it cripples his arm or humbles +his back." He drew his arm up once or twice and shot it out straight +into the air like a catapult. "It's all right," he added, very softly, +"an', Half-breed, me b'y, if me frinds have turned inimies, why, I'm +thinkin' me inimy has turned frind, for that I'm sure you were, an' this +I'm certain y 'are. So here's the grip av me fist, an' y'll have it." +Pierre remembered that disconcerting, iron grip of friendship for many a +day. He laughed to himself to think how he was turning the braggart into +a warrior. "Well," said Pierre, "what about those five at Wonta's tent?" + +"I'll be there whin the sun dips below the Little Red Hill," he said, +as though his thoughts were far away, and he turned his face towards +Wonta's tent. Presently he laughed out loud. "It's manny along day," he +said, "since--" + +Then he changed his thoughts. "They've spoke sharp words in me teeth," +he continued, "and they'll pay for it. Bounce! sweat! brag! wind! is it? +There's dancin' beyant this night, me darlins!" + +"Are you sure you'll not run away when they come on?" said Pierre, a +little ironically. + +"Is that the word av a frind?" replied Macavoy, a hand fumbling in his +hair. + +"Did you never run away when faced?" Pierre asked pitilessly. + +"I never turned tail from a man, though, to be sure, it's been more talk +than fight up here: Fort Ste. Anne's been but a graveyard for fun these +years." + +"Eh, well," persisted Pierre, "but did you never turn tail from a slip +of a woman?" + +The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered his beard in his mouth, +chewing it confusedly. "You've a keen tongue for a question," was his +reply. "What for should anny man run from a woman?" + +"When the furniture flies, an' the woman knows more of the world in +a day than the man does in a year; and the man's a hulking bit of an +Irishman--bien, then things are so and so!" + +Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trembling. "Come into the shade of +these maples," said Pierre, "for the sun has set you quaking a little," +and he put out his hand to take Macavoy's arm. + +The giant drew away from the hand, but walked on to the trees. His face +seemed to have grown older by years on the moment. "What's this y'are +sayin' to me?" he asked hoarsely. "What do you know av--av that woman?" + +"Malahide is a long way off," said Pierre, "but when one travels why +shouldn't the other?" + +Macavoy made a helpless motion with his lumbering hand. "Mother o' +saints," he said, "has it come to that, after all these years? Is +she--tell me where she is, me frind, and you'll niver want an arm to +fight for ye, an' the half av a blanket, while I have wan!" + +"But you'll run as you did before, if I tell you, an' there'll be no +fighting to-night, accordin' to the word you've given." + +"No fightin', did ye say? an' run away, is it? Then this in your eye, +that if ye'll bring an army, I'll fight till the skin is in rags on me +bones, whin it's only men that's before me; but woman--and that wan! +Faith, I'd run, I'm thinkin', as I did, you know when--Don't tell me +that she's here, man; arrah, don't say that!" + +There was something pitiful and childlike in the big man's voice, so +much so that Pierre, calculating gamester as he was, and working upon +him as he had been for many weeks, felt a sudden pity, and dropping his +fingers on the other's arm, said: "No, Macavoy, my friend, she is not +here; but she is at Fort Ste. Anne--or was when I left there." + +Macavoy groaned. "Does she know that I'm here?" he asked. + +"I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away, and she may not hear." + +"What--what is she doing?" + +"Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan's green." Then Pierre told him +somewhat bluntly what he knew of Mrs. Macavoy. + +"I'd rather face Ballzeboob himself than her," said Macavoy. "An' she's +sure to find me." + +"Not if you do as I say." + +"An' what is it ye say, little man?" + +"Come away with me where she'll not find you." + +"An' where's that, Pierre darlin'?" + +"I'll tell you that when to-night's fighting's over. Have you a mind for +Wonta?" he continued. + +"I've a mind for Wonta an' many another as fine, but I'm a married man," +he said, "by priest an' by book; an' I can't forget that, though the +woman's to me as the pit below." + +Pierre looked curiously at him. "You're a wonderful fool," he said, "but +I'm not sure that I like you less for that. There was Shon M'Gann--but +it is no matter." He sighed and continued: "When to-night is over, you +shall have work and fun that you've been fattening for this many a year, +and the woman'll not find you, be sure of that. Besides--" he whispered +in Macavoy's ear. + +"Poor divil, poor divil, she'd always a throat for that; but it's a +horrible death to die, I'm thinkin'." Macavoy's chin dropped on his +breast. + +When the sun was falling below Little Red Hill, Macavoy came to Wonta's +tent. Pierre was not far away. What occurred in the tent Pierre never +quite knew, but presently he saw Wonta run out in a frightened way, +followed by the five half-breeds, who carried themselves awkwardly. +Behind them again, with head shaking from one side to the other, +travelled Macavoy; and they all marched away towards the Fort. "Well," +said Pierre to Wonta, "he is amusing, eh?--so big a coward, eh?" + +"No, no," she said, "you are wrong. He is no coward. He is a great +brave. He spoke like a little child, but he said he would fight them all +when--" + +"When their turn came," interposed Pierre, with a fine "bead" of humour +in his voice; "well, you see he has much to do." He pointed towards +the Fort, where people were gathering fast. The strange news had gone +abroad, and the settlement, laughing joyously, came to see Macavoy +swagger; they did not think there would be fighting. + +Those whom Macavoy had challenged were not so sure. When the giant +reached the open space in front of the Fort, he looked slowly round him. +A great change had come over him. His skin seemed drawn together more +firmly, and running himself up finely to his full height, he looked +no longer the lounging braggart. Pierre measured him with his eye, and +chuckled to himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his coat and waistcoat, +and rolled up his sleeves. His shirt was flying at the chest. + +He beckoned to Pierre. + +"Are you standin' me frind in this?" he said. "Now and after," said +Pierre. + +His voice was very simple. "I never felt as I do since the day the +coast-guardsmin dropped on me in Ireland far away, an' I drew blood an +every wan o' them--fine beautiful b'ys they looked--stretchen' out on +the ground wan by wan. D'ye know the double-an'-twist?" he suddenly +added, "for it's a honey trick whin they gather in an you, an' you can't +be layin' out wid yer fists. It plays the divil wid the spines av thim. +Will ye have a drop av drink--cold water, man--near, an' a sponge betune +whiles? For there's manny in the play--makin' up for lost time. Come +on," he added to the two settlers, who stood not far away, "for ye began +the trouble, an' we'll settle accordin' to a, b, c." + +Wiley and Hatchett were there. Responding to his call, they stepped +forward, though they had now little relish for the matter. They were +pale, but they stripped their coats and waistcoats, and Wiley stepped +bravely in front of Macavoy. The giant looked down on him, arms folded. +"I said two of you," he crooned, as if speaking to a woman. Hatchett +stepped forward also. An instant after the settlers were lying on the +ground at different angles, bruised and dismayed, and little likely to +carry on the war. Macavoy took a pail of water from the ground, drank +from it lightly, and waited. None other of his opponents stirred. +"There's three Injins," he said, "three rid divils, that wants showin' +the way to their happy huntin' grounds.... Sure, y'are comin', ain't +you, me darlins?" he added coaxingly, and he stretched himself, as if to +make ready. + +Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three Indians, and they stepped +forth warily. They had determined on strategic wrestling, and not on the +instant activity of fists. But their wiliness was useless, for Macavoy's +double-and-twist came near to lessening the Indian population of Fort +O'Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm, however. The Irishman came out +of the tangle of battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his beard +all torn, and face battered. A shout of laughter, admiration and wonder +went up from the crowd. There was a moment's pause, and then Macavoy, +whose blood ran high, stood forth again. The Trader came to him. + +"Must this go on?" he said; "haven't you had your fill of it?" + +Had he touched Macavoy with a word of humour the matter might have ended +there; but now the giant spoke loud, so all could hear. + +"Had me fill av it, Trader, me angel? I'm only gittin' the taste av it. +An' ye'll plaze bring on yer men--four it was--for the feed av Irish +pemmican." + +The Trader turned and swore at Pierre, who smiled enigmatically. Soon +after, two of the best fighters of the Company's men stood forth. +Macavoy shook his head. "Four, I said, an' four I'll have, or I'll ate +the heads aff these." + +Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All on an instant the four made +a rush on the giant; and there was a stiff minute after, in which it was +not clear that he was happy. Blows rattled on him, and one or two he +got on the head, just as he tossed a man spinning senseless across +the grass, which sent him staggering backwards for a moment, sick and +stunned. + +Pierre called over to him swiftly: "Remember Malahide!" + +This acted on him like a charm. There never was seen such a shattered +bundle of men as came out from his hands a few minutes later. As for +himself, he had but a rag or two on him, but stood unmindful of his +state, and the fever of battle untameable on him. The women drew away. + +"Now, me babes o' the wood," he shouted, "that sit at the feet av the +finest Injin woman in the North,--though she's no frind o' mine--and +aren't fit to kiss her moccasin, come an wid you, till I have me fun wid +your spines." + +But a shout went up, and the crowd pointed. There were the five +half-breeds running away across the plains. + +The game was over. + +"Here's some clothes, man; for Heaven's sake put them on," said the +Trader. + +Then the giant became conscious of his condition, and like a timid girl +he hurried into the clothing. + +The crowd would have carried him on their shoulders, but he would have +none of it. + +"I've only wan frind here," he said, "an' it's Pierre, an' to his shanty +I go an' no other." + +"Come, mon ami," said Pierre, "for to-morrow we travel far." + +"And what for that?" said Macavoy. + +Pierre whispered in his ear: "To make you a king, my lovely bully." + + + + +THE FILIBUSTER + +Pierre had determined to establish a kingdom, not for gain, but for +conquest's sake. But because he knew that the thing would pall, he took +with him Macavoy the giant, to make him king instead. But first he +made Macavoy from a lovely bully, a bulk of good-natured brag, into a +Hercules of fight; for, having made him insult--and be insulted by--near +a score of men at Fort O'Angel, he also made him fight them by twos, +threes, and fours, all on a summer's evening, and send them away broken. +Macavoy would have hesitated to go with Pierre, were it not that he +feared a woman. Not that he had wronged her; she had wronged him: she +had married him. And the fear of one's own wife is the worst fear in the +world. + +But though his heart went out to women, and his tongue was of the race +that beguiles, he stood to his "lines" like a man, and people wondered. +Even Wonta, the daughter of Foot-in-the-Sun, only bent him, she +could not break him to her will. Pierre turned her shy coaxing into +irony--that was on the day when all Fort O'Angel conspired to prove +Macavoy a child and not a warrior. But when she saw what she had done, +and that the giant was greater than his years of brag, she repented, and +hung a dead coyote at Pierre's door as a sign of her contempt. + +Pierre watched Macavoy, sitting with a sponge of vinegar to his head, +for he had had nasty joltings in his great fight. A little laugh came +crinkling up to the half-breed's lips, but dissolved into silence. + +"We'll start in the morning," he said. + +Macavoy looked up. "Whin you plaze; but a word in your ear; are you sure +she'll not follow us?" + +"She doesn't know. Fort Ste. Anne is in the south, and Fort Comfort, +where we go, is far north." + +"But if she kem!" the big man persisted. + +"You will be a king; you can do as other kings have done," Pierre +chuckled. + +The other shook his head. "Says Father Nolan to me," says he, "tis +till death us do part, an' no man put asunder'; an' I'll stand by that, +though I'd slice out the bist tin years av me life, if I niver saw her +face again." + +"But the girl, Wonta--what a queen she'd make!" + +"Marry her yourself, and be king yourself, and be damned to you! For +she, like the rest, laughed in me face, whin I told thim of the day whin +I--" + +"That's nothing. She hung a dead coyote at my door. You don't know +women. There'll be your breed and hers abroad in the land one day." + +Macavoy stretched to his feet--he was so tall that he could not stand +upright in the room. He towered over Pierre, who blandly eyed him. "I've +another word for your ear," he said darkly. "Keep clear av the likes +o' that wid me. For I've swallowed a tribe av divils. It's fightin' you +want. Well, I'll do it--I've an itch for the throats av men, but a fool +I'll be no more wid wimin, white or red--that hell-cat that spoilt me +life an' killed me child, or--" + +A sob clutched him in the throat. + +"You had a child, then?" asked Pierre gently. + +"An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an' 'd melt the heart av an +iron god: none like her above or below. But the mother, ah, the mother +of her! One day whin she'd said a sharp word, wid another from me, an' +the child clinging to her dress, she turned quick and struck it, meanin' +to anger me. Not so hard the blow was, but it sent the darlin's head +agin' the chimney-stone, and that was the end av it. For she took to her +bed, an' agin' the crowin' o' the cock wan midnight, she gives a little +cry an' snatched at me beard. 'Daddy,' says she, 'daddy, it hurts!' An' +thin she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her lips." + +Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling in his beard. Pierre was +uncomfortable. He could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death +unmoved--it seemed to him in the game; but the tragedy of a child, a +mere counter yet in the play of life--that was different. He slid a hand +over the table, and caught Macavoy's arm. "Poor little waif!" he said. + +Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned Pierre sick, and asked: "Had +ye iver a child av y'r own, Pierre-iver wan at all?" + +"Never," said Pierre dreamily, "and I've travelled far. A child--a +child--is a wonderful thing.... Poor little waif!" + +They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre was about to rise, but Macavoy +suddenly pinned him to his seat with this question: "Did y' iver have a +wife, thin, Pierre?" + +Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came through his teeth. He spoke +slowly: "Yes, once." + +"And she died?" asked the other, awed. + +"We all have our day," he replied enigmatically, "and there are worse +things than death.... Eh, well, mon ami, let us talk of other things. +To-morrow we go to conquer. I know where I can get five men I want. I +have ammunition and dogs." + +A few minutes afterwards Pierre was busy in the settlement. At the +Fort he heard strange news. A new batch of settlers was coming from the +south, and among them was an old Irishwoman who called herself now Mrs. +Whelan, now Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she was to find, +one Tim Macavoy, whose fame Gossip had brought to her at last. + +She had clung on to the settlers, and they could not shake her off. "She +was comin'," she said, "to her own darlin' b'y, from whom she'd been +parted manny a year, believin' him dead, or Tom Whelan had nivir touched +hand o' hers." + +The bearer of the news had but just arrived, and he told it only to the +Chief Trader and Pierre. At a word from Pierre the man promised to hold +his peace. Then Pierre went to Wonta's lodge. He found her with her +father alone, her head at her knees. When she heard his voice she looked +up sharply, and added a sharp word also. + +"Wait," he said; "women are such fools. You snapped your fingers in his +face, and laughed at him. Bien, that is nothing. He has proved himself +great. That is something. He will be greater still, if the other woman +does not find him. She should die, but then some women have no sense." + +"The other woman!" said Wonta, starting to her feet; "who is the other +woman?" + +Old Foot-in-the-Sun waked and sat up, but seeing that it was Pierre, +dropped again to sleep. Pierre, he knew, was no peril to any woman. +Besides, Wonta hated the half-breed, as he thought. + +Pierre told the girl the story of Macavoy's life; for he knew that she +loved the man after her heathen fashion, and that she could be trusted. + +"I do not care for that," she said, when he had finished; "it is +nothing. I would go with him. I should be his wife, the other should +die. I would kill her, if she would fight me. I know the way of knives, +or a rifle, or a pinch at the throat--she should die!" + +"Yes, but that will not do. Keep your hands free of her." + +Then he told her that they were going away. She said she would go also. +He said no to that, but told her to wait and he would come back for her. + +Though she tried hard to follow them, they slipped away from the Fort +in the moist gloom of the morning, the brown grass rustling, the +prairie-hens fluttering, the osiers soughing as they passed, the Spirit +of the North, ever hungry, drawing them on over the long Divides. They +did not see each other's faces till dawn. They were guided by Pierre's +voice; none knew his comrades. Besides Pierre and Macavoy, there were +five half-breeds--Noel, Little Babiche, Corvette, Josh, and Jacques +Parfaite. When they came to recognise each other, they shook hands, +and marched on. In good time they reached that wonderful and pleasant +country between the Barren Grounds and the Lake of Silver Shallows. To +the north of it was Fort Comfort, which they had come to take. Macavoy's +rich voice roared as of old, before his valour was questioned--and +maintained--at Fort O'Angel. Pierre had diverted his mind from the woman +who, at Fort O'Angel, was even now calling heaven and earth to witness +that "Tim Macavoy was her Macavoy and no other, an' she'd find him--the +divil and darlin', wid an arm like Broin Borhoime, an' a chest you could +build a house on--if she walked till Doomsday!" + +Macavoy stood out grandly, his fat all gone to muscle, blowing through +his beard, puffing his cheek, and ready with tale or song. But now that +they were facing the business of their journey, his voice got soft and +gentle, as it did before the Fort, when he grappled his foes two by two +and three by three, and wrung them out. In his eyes there was the +thing which counts as many men in any soldier's sight, when he leads +in battle. As he said himself, he was made for war, like Malachi o' the +Golden Collar. + +Pierre guessed that just now many of the Indians would be away for the +summer hunt, and that the Fort would perhaps be held by only a few score +of braves, who, however, would fight when they might easier play. He had +no useless compunctions about bloodshed. A human life he held to be a +trifle in the big sum of time, and that it was of little moment when a +man went, if it seemed his hour. He lived up to his creed, for he had +ever held his own life as a bird upon a housetop, which a chance stone +might drop. + +He was glad afterwards that he had decided to fight, for there was one +in Fort Comfort against whom he had an old grudge--the Indian, Young +Eye, who, many years before, had been one to help in killing the good +Father Halen, the priest who dropped the water on his forehead and set +the cross on top of that, when he was at his mother's breasts. One by +one the murderers had been killed, save this man. He had wandered north, +lived on the Coppermine River for a long time, and at length had come +down among the warring tribes at the Lake of Silver Shallows. + +Pierre was for direct attack. They crossed the lake in their canoes, at +a point about five miles from the Fort, and, so far as they could tell, +without being seen. Then ammunition went round, and they marched upon +the Fort. Pierre eyed Macavoy--measured him, as it were, for what he was +worth. The giant seemed happy. He was humming a tune softly through his +beard. Suddenly Jose paused, dropped to the foot of a pine, and put his +ear to it. Pierre understood. He had caught at the same thing. "There is +a dance on," said Jose, "I can hear the drum." + +Pierre thought a minute. "We will reconnoitre," he said presently. + +"It is near night now," remarked Little Babiche. "I know something +of these. When they have a great snake dance at night, strange things +happen." Then he spoke in a low tone to Pierre. + +They halted in the bush, and Little Babiche went forward to spy upon the +Fort. He came back just after sunset, reporting that the Indians were +feasting. He had crept near, and had learned that the braves were +expected back from the hunt that night, and that the feast was for their +welcome. + +The Fort stood in an open space, with tall trees for a background. In +front, here and there, were juniper and tamarac bushes. Pierre laid his +plans immediately, and gave the word to move on. Their presence had not +been discovered, and if they could but surprise the Indians the Fort +might easily be theirs. They made a detour, and after an hour came upon +the Fort from behind. Pierre himself went forward cautiously, leaving +Macavoy in command. When he came again he said: + +"It's a fine sight, and the way is open. They are feasting and dancing. +If we can enter without being seen, we are safe, except for food; we +must trust for that. Come on." + +When they arrived at the margin of the woods a wonderful scene was +before them. A volcanic hill rose up on one side, gloomy and stern, but +the reflection of the fires reached it, and made its sides quiver--the +rock itself seemed trembling. The sombre pines showed up, a wall all +round, and in the open space, turreted with fantastic fires, the Indians +swayed in and out with weird chanting, their bodies mostly naked, and +painted in strange colours. The earth itself was still and sober. Scarce +a star peeped forth. A purple velvet curtain seemed to hang all down the +sky, though here and there the flame bronzed it. The Indian lodges were +empty, save where a few children squatted at the openings. The seven +stood still with wonder, till Pierre whispered to them to get to the +ground and crawl close in by the walls of the Fort, following him. They +did so, Macavoy breathing hard--too hard; for suddenly Pierre clapped a +hand on his mouth. + +They were now near the Fort, and Pierre had seen an Indian come from +the gate. The brave was within a few feet of them. He had almost passed +them, for they were in the shadow, but Jose had burst a puffball with +his hand, and the dust, flying up, made him sneeze. The Indian turned +and saw them. With a low cry and the spring of a tiger Pierre was at +his throat; and in another minute they were struggling on the ground. +Pierre's hand never let go. His comrades did not stir; he had warned +them to lie still. They saw the terrible game played out within arm's +length of them. They heard Pierre say at last, as the struggles of the +Indian ceased: "Beast! You had Father Halen's life. I have yours." + +There was one more wrench of the Indian's limbs, and then he lay still. + +They crawled nearer the gate, still hidden in the shadows and the grass. +Presently they came to a clear space. Across this they must go, and +enter the Fort before they were discovered. They got to their feet, and +ran with wonderful swiftness, Pierre leading, to the gate. They had just +reached it when there was a cry from the walls, on which two Indians +were sitting. The Indians sprang down, seized their spears, and lunged +at the seven as they entered. One spear caught Little Babiche in the arm +as he swung aside, but with the butt of his musket Noel dropped him. +The other Indian was promptly handled by Pierre himself. By this time +Corvette and Jose had shut the gates, and the Fort was theirs--an easy +conquest. The Indians were bound and gagged. + +The adventurers had done it all without drawing the attention of the +howling crowd without. The matter was in its infancy, however. They +had the place, but could they hold it? What food and water were there +within? Perhaps they were hardly so safe besieged as besiegers. Yet +there was no doubt on Pierre's part. He had enjoyed the adventure so far +up to the hilt. An old promise had been kept, and an old wrong avenged. + +"What's to be done now?" said Macavoy. "There'll be hell's own racket; +and they'll come on like a flood." + +"To wait," said Pierre, "and dam the flood as it comes. But not a bullet +till I give the word. Take to the chinks. We'll have them soon." + +He was right: they came soon. Someone had found the dead body of Young +Eye; then it was discovered that the gate was shut. A great shout went +up. The Indians ran to their lodges for spears and hatchets, though +the weapons of many were within the Fort, and soon they were about the +place, shouting in impotent rage. They could not tell how many invaders +were in the Fort; they suspected it was the Little Skins, their ancient +enemies. But Young Eye, they saw, had not been scalped. This was brought +to the old chief, and he called to his men to fall back. They had not +seen one man of the invaders; all was silent and dark within the Fort; +even the two torches which had been burning above the gate were down. +At that moment, as if to add to the strangeness, a caribou came suddenly +through the fires, and, passing not far from the bewildered Indians, +plunged into the trees behind the Fort. + +The caribou is credited with great powers. It is thought to understand +all that is said to it, and to be able to take the form of a spirit. No +Indian will come near it till it is dead, and he that kills it out of +season is supposed to bring down all manner of evil. + +So at this sight they cried out--the women falling to the ground with +their faces in their arms--that the caribou had done this thing. For a +moment they were all afraid. Besides, as a brave showed, there was no +mark on the body of Young Eye. + +Pierre knew quite well that this was a bull caribou, travelling wildly +till he found another herd. He would carry on the deception. "Wail for +the dead, as your women do in Ireland. That will finish them," he said +to Macavoy. + +The giant threw his voice up and out, so that it seemed to come from +over the Fort to the Indians, weird and crying. Even the half-breeds +standing by felt a light shock of unnatural excitement. The Indians +without drew back slowly from the Fort, leaving a clear space between. +Macavoy had uncanny tricks with his voice, and presently he changed +the song into a shrill, wailing whistle, which went trembling about the +place and then stopped suddenly. + +"Sure, that's a poor game, Pierre," he whispered; "an' I'd rather be +pluggin' their hides wid bullets, or givin' the double-an'-twist. It's +fightin' I come for, and not the trick av Mother Kilkevin." + +Pierre arranged a plan of campaign at once. Every man looked to his gun, +the gates were slowly opened, and Macavoy stepped out. Pierre had thrown +over the Irishman's shoulders the great skin of a musk-ox which he +had found inside the stockade. He was a strange, immense figure, as he +walked into the open space, and, folding his arms, looked round. In +the shadow of the gate behind were Pierre and the halfbreeds, with guns +cocked. + +Macavoy had lived so long in the north that he knew enough of all the +languages to speak to this tribe. When he came out a murmur of wonder +ran among the Indians. They had never seen anyone so tall, for they were +not great of stature, and his huge beard and wild shock of hair were a +wonderful sight. He remained silent, looking on them. At last the old +chief spoke. "Who are you?" + +"I am a great chief from the Hills of the Mighty Men, come to be your +king," was his reply. + +"He is your king," cried Pierre in a strange voice from the shadow of +the gate, and he thrust out his gun-barrel, so that they could see it. + +The Indians now saw Pierre and the half-breeds in the gateway, and they +had not so much awe. They came a little nearer, and the women stopped +crying. A few of the braves half-raised their spears. Seeing this, +Pierre instantly stepped forward to the giant. He looked a child in +stature thereby. He spoke quickly and well in the Chinook language. + +"This is a mighty man from the Hills of the Mighty Men. He has come +to rule over you, to give all other tribes into your hands; for he has +strength like a thousand, and fears nothing of gods nor men. I have +the blood of red men in me. It is I who have called this man from +his distant home. I heard of your fighting and foolishness: also that +warriors were to come from the south country to scatter your wives and +children, and to make you slaves. I pitied you, and I have brought you a +chief greater than any other. Throw your spears upon the ground, and all +will be well; but raise one to throw, or one arrow, or axe, and there +shall be death among you, so that as a people you shall die. The spirits +are with us. ... Well?" + +The Indians drew a little nearer, but they did not drop their spears, +for the old chief forbade them. + +"We are no dogs nor cowards," he said, "though the spirits be with +you, as we believe. We have seen strange things"--he pointed to Young +Eye--"and heard voices not of men; but we would see great things as well +as strange. There are seven men of the Little Skins tribe within a lodge +yonder. They were to die when our braves returned from the hunt, and for +that we prepared the feast. But this mighty man, he shall fight them all +at once, and if he kills them he shall be our king. In the name of my +tribe I speak. And this other," pointing to Pierre, "he shall also fight +with a strong man of our tribe, so that we shall know if you are all +brave, and not as those who crawl at the knees of the mighty." + +This was more than Pierre had bargained for. Seven men at Macavoy, and +Indians too, fighting for their lives, was a contract of weight. But +Macavoy was blowing in his beard cheerfully enough. + +"Let me choose me ground," he said, "wid me back to the wall, an' I'll +take thim as they come." + +Pierre instantly interpreted this to the Indians, and said for himself +that he would welcome their strongest man at the point of a knife when +he chose. + +The chief gave an order, and the Little Skins were brought. The fires +still burned brightly, and the breathing of the pines, as a slight wind +rose and stirred them, came softly over. The Indians stood off at the +command of the chief. Macavoy drew back to the wall, dropped the musk-ox +skin to the ground, and stripped himself to the waist. But in his +waistband there was what none of these Indians had ever seen--a small +revolver that barked ever so softly. In the hands of each Little Skin +there was put a knife, and they were told their cheerful exercise. They +came on cautiously, and then suddenly closed in, knives flashing. But +Macavoy's little bulldog barked, and one dropped to the ground. The +others fell back. The wounded man drew up, made a lunge at Macavoy, but +missed him. As if ashamed, the other six came on again at a spring. But +again the weapon did its work smartly, and one more came down. Now the +giant put it away, ran in upon the five, and cut right and left. So +sudden and massive was his rush that they had no chance. Three fell +at his blows, and then he drew back swiftly to the wall. "Drop your +knives," he said, as they cowered, "or I'll kill you all." They did so. +He dropped his own. + +"Now come on, ye scuts!" he cried, and suddenly he reached and caught +them, one with each arm, and wrestled with them, till he bent the one +like a willow-rod, and dropped him with a broken back, while the other +was at his mercy. Suddenly loosing him, he turned him towards the woods, +and said: "Run, ye rid divil, run for y'r life!" + +A dozen spears were raised, but the rifles of Pierre's men came in +between: the Indian reached cover and was gone. Of the six others, two +had been killed, the rest were severely wounded, and Macavoy had not a +scratch. + +Pierre smiled grimly. "You've been doing all the fighting, Macavoy," he +said. + +"There's no bein' a king for nothin'," he replied, wiping blood from his +beard. + +"It's my turn now, but keep your rifles ready, though I think there's no +need." + +Pierre had but a short minute with the champion, for he was an expert +with the knife. He carried away four fingers of the Indian's fighting +hand, and that ended it; for the next instant the point was at the red +man's throat. The Indian stood to take it like a man; but Pierre loved +that kind of courage, and shot the knife into its sheath instead. + +The old chief kept his word, and after the spears were piled, he shook +hands with Macavoy, as did his braves one by one, and they were all +moved by the sincerity of his grasp: their arms were useless for some +time after. They hailed as their ruler, King Macavoy I.; for men are +like dogs--they worship him who beats them. The feasting and dancing +went on till the hunters came back. Then there was a wild scene, but in +the end all the hunters, satisfied, came to greet their new king. + +The king himself went to bed in the Fort that night, Pierre and +his bodyguard--by name Noel, Little Babiche, Corvette, Jose, and +Parfaite--its only occupants, singing joyfully: + + "Did yees iver hear tell o' Long Barney, + That come from the groves o' Killarney? + He wint for a king, oh, he wint for a king, + But he niver keen back to Killarney + Wid his crown, an' his soord, an' his army!" + +As a king Macavoy was a success, for the brag had gone from him. Like +all his race he had faults as a subject, but the responsibility of +ruling set him right. He found in the Fort an old sword and belt, left +by some Hudson's Bay Company's man, and these he furbished up and wore. + +With Pierre's aid he drew up a simple constitution, which he carried in +the crown of his cap, and he distributed beads and gaudy trappings as +marks of honour. Nor did he forget the frequent pipe of peace, made +possible to all by generous gifts of tobacco. Anyone can found a kingdom +abaft the Barren Grounds with tobacco, beads, and red flannel. + +For very many weeks it was a happy kingdom. But presently Pierre yawned, +and was ready to return. Three of the half-breeds were inclined to go +with him. Jose and Little Babiche had formed alliances which held them +there--besides, King Macavoy needed them. + +On the eve of Pierre's departure a notable thing occurred. + +A young brave had broken his leg in hunting, had been picked up by a +band of another tribe, and carried south. He found himself at last at +Fort O'Angel. There he had met Mrs. Whelan, and for presents of tobacco, +and purple and fine linen, he had led her to her consort. That was how +the king and Pierre met her in the yard of Fort Comfort one evening of +early autumn. Pierre saw her first, and was for turning the King about +and getting him away; but it was too late. Mrs. Whelan had seen him, and +she called out at him: + +"Oh, Tim! me jool, me king, have I found ye, me imp'ror!" + +She ran at him, to throw her arms round him. He stepped back, the red of +his face going white, and said, stretching out his hand, "Woman, y'are +me wife, I know, whativer y' be; an' y've right to have shelter and +bread av me; but me arms, an' me bed, are me own to kape or to give; +and, by God, ye shall have nayther one nor the other! There's a ditch as +wide as hell betune us." + +The Indians had gathered quickly; they filled the yard, and crowded the +gate. The woman went wild, for she had been drinking. She ran at Macavoy +and spat in his face, and called down such a curse on him as, whoever +hears, be he one that's cursed or any other, shudders at till he dies. +Then she fell in a fit at his feet. Macavoy turned to the Indians, +stretched out his hands and tried to speak, but could not. He stooped +down, picked up the woman, carried her into the Fort, and laid her on a +bed of skins. + +"What will you do?" asked Pierre. + +"She is my wife," he answered firmly. + +"She lived with Whelan." + +"She must be cared for," was the reply. Pierre looked at him with a +curious quietness. "I'll get liquor for her," he said presently. He +started to go, but turned and felt the woman's pulse. "You would keep +her?" he asked. + +"Bring the liquor." Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the sleeve of +his shirt in it, wetted her face gently. + +Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that the woman would die. He +stayed with Macavoy beside her all the night. Towards morning her eyes +opened, and she shivered greatly. + +"It's bither cold," she said. "You'll put more wood on the fire, Tim, +for the babe must be kept warrum." + +She thought she was at Malahide. + +"Oh, wurra, wurra, but 'tis freezin'!" she said again. "Why d'ye kape +the door opin whin the child's perishin'?" + +Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shaking him. + +"I'll shut the door meself, thin," she added; "for 'twas I that lift it +opin, Tim." She started up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell +back. + +"The door is shut," said Pierre. + +"But the child--the child!" said Macavoy, tears running down his face +and beard. + + + + +THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING + +Once Macavoy the giant ruled a tribe of Northern people, achieving the +dignity by the hands of Pierre, who called him King Macavoy. Then came +a time when, tiring of his kingship, he journeyed south, leaving all +behind, even his queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and yarrow, +came forth no more into the morning. About Fort Guidon they still +gave him his title, and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and +generosity, Pierre called him "The Simple King." His seven feet and over +shambled about, suggesting unjointed power, unshackled force. No one +hated Macavoy, many loved him, he was welcome at the fire and the +cooking-pot; yet it seemed shameful to have so much man useless--such +an engine of life, which might do great things, wasting fuel. Nobody +thought much of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps, Pierre, who +sometimes said, "My simple king, some day you shall have your great +chance again; but not as a king--as a giant, a man--voila!" + +The day did not come immediately, but it came. When Ida, the deaf and +dumb girl, married Hilton, of the H.B.C., every man at Fort Guidon, and +some from posts beyond, sent her or brought her presents of one kind or +another. Pierre's gift was a Mexican saddle. He was branding Ida's name +on it with the broken blade of a case-knife when Macavoy entered on him, +having just returned from a vagabond visit to Fort Ste. Anne. + +"Is it digging out or carvin' in y'are?" he asked, puffing into his +beard. + +Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not reply to the insinuation, +for he never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it; and he would +not quarrel with Macavoy. + +"What are you going to give?" he asked. + +"Aw, give what to who, hop-o'-me-thumb?" Macavoy said, stretching +himself out in the doorway, his legs in the sun, head in the shade. + +"You've been taking a walk in the country, then?" Pierre asked, though +he knew. + +"To Fort Ste. Anne: a buryin', two christ'nin's, an' a weddin'; an' +lashin's av grog an' swill-aw that, me button o' the North!" + +"La la! What a fool you are, my simple king! You've got the things end +foremost. Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light a cigarette, +and if you breathe this way, there will be a grand explode." + +"Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre! It's like a baby's, me breath is, +milk and honey it is--aw yis; an' Father Corraine, that was doin' the +trick for the love o' God, says he to me, 'Little Tim Macavoy,'--aw yis, +little Tim Macavoy,--says he, 'when are you goin' to buckle to, for +the love o' God?' says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that Father Corraine +should spake to me like that, for I'd only a twig twisted at me hips to +kape me trousies up, an' I thought 'twas that he had in his eye! 'Buckle +to,' says I, 'Father Corraine? Buckle to, yer riv'rince?'--feelin' I +was at the twigs the while. 'Ay, little Tim Macavoy,' he says, says he, +'you've bin 'atin' the husks av idleness long enough; when are you goin' +to buckle to? You had a kingdom and ye guv it up,' says he; 'take +a field, get a plough, and buckle to,' says he, 'an' turn back no +more'--like that, says Father Corraine; and I thinkin' all the time +'twas the want o' me belt he was drivin' at." + +Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then said: "Such a tom-fool! And +where's that grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch?" + +A laugh shook through Macavoy's beard. "For the weddin' it wint: buckled +the two up wid it for better or worse--an' purty they looked, they did, +standin' there in me cinch, an' one hole left--aw yis, Pierre." + +"And what do you give to Ida?" Pierre asked, with a little emphasis of +the branding-iron. + +Macavoy got to his feet. "Ida! Ida!" said he. "Is that saddle for Ida? +Is it her and Hilton that's to ate aff one dish togither? That rose o' +the valley, that bird wid a song in her face and none an her tongue. +That daisy dot av a thing, steppin' through the world like a sprig o' +glory. Aw, Pierre, thim two!--an' I've divil a scrap to give, good or +bad. I've nothin' at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes an me +back, an' thim hangin' on the underbrush!"--giving a little twist to the +twigs. "An' many a meal an' many a dipper o' drink she's guv me, little +smiles dancin' at her lips." + +He sat down in the doorway again, with his face turned towards Pierre, +and the back of his head in the sun. He was a picture of perfect health, +sumptuous, huge, a bull in beauty, the heart of a child looking out of +his eyes, but a sort of despair, too, in his bearing. + +Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for a time, then he said +languidly: "Never mind your clothes, give yourself." + +"Yer tongue in yer cheek, me spot o' vinegar. Give meself! What's that +for? A purty weddin' gift, says I? Handy thing to have in the house! Use +me for a clothes-horse, or shtand me in the garden for a fairy bower-aw +yis, wid a hole in me face that'd ate thim out o' house and home!" + +Pierre drew a piece of brown paper towards him, and wrote on it with a +burnt match. Presently he held it up. "Voila, my simple king, the thing +for you to do: a grand gift, and to cost you nothing now. Come, read it +out, and tell me what you think." + +Macavoy took the paper, and in a large, judicial way, read slowly: + +"On demand, for value received, I promise to pay to... IDA HILTON... or +order, meself, Tim Macavoy, standin' seven foot three on me bare fut, +wid interest at nothin' at all." + +Macavoy ended with a loud smack of the lips. "McGuire!" he said, and +nothing more. + +McGuire was his strongest expression. In the most important moments +of his career he had said it, and it sounded deep, strange, and more +powerful than many usual oaths. A moment later he said again "McGuire!" +Then he read the paper once more out loud. "What's that, me Frinchman?" +he asked. "What Ballzeboob's tricks are y'at now?" + +Pierre was complacently eyeing his handiwork on the saddle. He now +settled back with his shoulders to the wall, and said: "See, then, it's +a little promissory note for a wedding-gift to Ida. When she says some +day, 'Tim Macavoy, I want you to do this or that, or to go here or +there, or to sell you or trade you, or use you for a clothes-horse, or a +bridge over a canyon, or to hold up a house, or blow out a prairie-fire, +or be my second husband,' you shall say, 'Here I am'; and you shall +travel from Heaven to Halifax, but you shall come at the call of this +promissory." + +Pierre's teeth glistened behind a smile as he spoke, and Macavoy broke +into a roar of laughter. "Black's the white o' yer eye," he said at +last, "an' a joke's a joke. Seven fut three I am, an' sound av wind an' +limb--an' a weddin'-gift to that swate rose o' the valley! Aisy, aisy, +Pierre. A bit o' foolin' 'twas ye put on the paper, but truth I'll make +it, me cock o' the walk. That's me gift to her an' Hilton, an' no other. +An' a dab wid red wax it shall have, an' what more be the word o' Freddy +Tarlton the lawyer?" + +"You're a great man," said Pierre with a touch of gentle irony, for his +natural malice had no play against the huge ex-king of his own making. +With these big creatures--he had connived with several in his time--he +had ever been superior, protective, making them to feel that they were +as children beside him. He looked at Macavoy musingly, and said to +himself: "Well, why not? If it is a joke, then it is a joke; if it is a +thing to make the world stand still for a minute sometime, so much the +better. He is all waste now. By the holy, he shall do it. It is amusing, +and it may be great by and by." + +Presently Pierre said aloud: "Well, my Macavoy, what will you do? Send +this good gift?" + +"Aw yis, Pierre; I shtand by that from the crown av me head to the sole +av me fut sure. Face like a mornin' in May, and hands like the tunes of +an organ, she has. Spakes wid a look av her eye and a twist av her +purty lips an' swaying body, an' talkin' to you widout a word. Aw +motion--motion--motion; yis, that's it. An' I've seen her an tap av +a hill wid the wind blowin' her hair free, and the yellow buds on the +tree, and the grass green beneath her feet, the world smilin' betune her +and the sun: pictures--pictures, aw yis! Promissory notice on demand is +it anny toime? Seven fut three on me bare toes--but Father o' Sin! when +she calls I come, yis." + +"On your oath, Macavoy?" asked Pierre; "by the book av the Mass?" + +Macavoy stood up straight till his head scraped the cobwebs between the +rafters, the wild indignation of a child in his eye. "D'ye think I'm a +thafe to stale me own word? Hut! I'll break ye in two, ye wisp o' straw, +if ye doubt me word to a lady. There's me note av hand, and ye shall +have me fist on it, in writin', at Freddy Tarlton's office, wid a blotch +av red an' the Queen's head at the bottom. McGuire!" he said again, and +paused, puffing his lips through his beard. + +Pierre looked at him a moment, then waving his fingers idly, said, +"So, my straw-breaker! Then tomorrow morning at ten you will fetch your +wedding-gift. But come so soon now to M'sieu' Tarlton's office, and +we will have it all as you say, with the red seal and the turn of your +fist--yes. Well, well, we travel far in the world, and sometimes we see +strange things, and no two strange things are alike--no; there is only +one Macavoy in the world, there was only one Shon McGann. Shon McGann +was a fine fool, but he did something at last, truly yes: Tim Macavoy, +perhaps, will do something at last on his own hook. Hey, I wonder!" He +felt the muscles of Macavoy's arm musingly, and then laughed up in the +giant's face. "Once I made you a king, my own, and you threw it all +away; now I make you a slave, and we shall see what you will do. Come +along, for M'sieu' Tarlton." + +Macavoy dropped a heavy hand on Pierre's shoulder. "'Tis hard to be a +king, Pierre, but 'tis aisy to be a slave for the likes o' her. I'd kiss +her dirty shoe sure!" + +As they passed through the door, Pierre said, "Dis done, perhaps, when +all is done, she will sell you for old bones and rags. Then I will buy +you, and I will burn your bones and the rags, and I will scatter to the +four winds of the earth the ashes of a king, a slave, a fool, and an +Irishman--truly!" + +"Bedad, ye'll have more earth in yer hands then, Pierre, than ye'll ever +earn, and more heaven than ye'll ever shtand in." + +Half an hour later they were in Freddy Tarlton's office on the banks of +the Little Big Swan, which tumbled past, swelled by the first rain of +the early autumn. Freddy Tarlton, who had a gift of humour, entered into +the spirit of the thing, and treated it seriously; but in vain did +he protest that the large red seal with Her Majesty's head on it was +unnecessary; Macavoy insisted, and wrote his name across it with a large +indistinctness worthy of a king. Before the night was over everybody at +Guidon Hill, save Hilton and Ida, knew what gift would come from Macavoy +to the wedded pair. + + + +II + +The next morning was almost painfully beautiful, so delicate in its +clearness, so exalted by the glory of the hills, so grand in the +limitless stretch of the green-brown prairie north and south. It was +a day for God's creatures to meet in, and speed away, and having flown +round the boundaries of that spacious domain, to return again to +the nest of home on the large plateau between the sea and the stars. +Gathered about Ida's home was everybody who lived within a radius of a +hundred miles. In the large front room all the presents were set: rich +furs from the far north, cunningly carved bowls, rocking-chairs made +by hand, knives, cooking utensils, a copy of Shakespeare in six volumes +from the Protestant missionary who performed the ceremony, a nugget of +gold from the Long Light River; and outside the door, a horse, Hilton's +own present to his wife, on which was put Pierre's saddle, with its +silver mounting and Ida's name branded deep on pommel and flap. When +Macavoy arrived, a cheer went up, which was carried on waves of laughter +into the house to Hilton and Ida, who even then were listening to the +first words of the brief service which begins, "I charge you both if you +do know any just cause or impediment--" and so on. + +They did not turn to see what it was, for just at that moment they +themselves were the very centre of the universe. Ida being deaf and +dumb, it was necessary to interpret to her the words of the service by +signs, as the missionary read it, and this was done by Pierre himself, +the half-breed Catholic, the man who had brought Hilton and Ida +together, for he and Ida had been old friends. After Father Corraine +had taught her the language of signs, Pierre had learned them from her, +until at last his gestures had become as vital as her own. The delicate +precision of his every movement, the suggestiveness of look and motion, +were suited to a language which was nearer to the instincts of his own +nature than word of mouth. All men did not trust Pierre, but all women +did; with those he had a touch of Machiavelli, with these he had no sign +of Mephistopheles, and few were the occasions in his life when he +showed outward tenderness to either: which was equally effective. He +had learnt, or knew by instinct, that exclusiveness as to men and +indifference as to women are the greatest influences on both. As he +stood there, slowly interpreting to Ida, by graceful allusive signs, the +words of the service, one could not think that behind his impassive +face there was any feeling for the man or for the woman. He had that +disdainful smile which men acquire who are all their lives aloof from +the hopes of the hearthstone and acknowledge no laws but their own. + +More than once the eyes of the girl filled with tears, as the pregnancy +of some phrase in the service came home to her. Her face responded to +Pierre's gestures, as do one's nerves to the delights of good music, and +there was something so unique, so impressive in the ceremony, that the +laughter which had greeted Macavoy passed away, and a dead silence; +beginning from where the two stood, crept out until it covered all the +prairie. Nothing was heard except Hilton's voice in strong tones saying, +"I take thee to be my wedded wife," etc.; but when the last words of +the service were said, and the newmade bride turned to her husband's +embrace, and a little sound of joy broke from her lips, there was plenty +of noise and laughter again, for Macavoy stood in the doorway, or rather +outside it, stooping to look in upon the scene. Someone had lent him the +cinch of a broncho and he had belted himself with it, no longer carrying +his clothes about "on the underbrush." Hilton laughed and stretched out +his hand. "Come in, King," he said, "come and wish us joy." + +Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his way, and instantly was +stooping before the pair--for he could not stand upright in the room. + +"Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that's pluckin' the rose av +the valley, snatchin' the stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o' +that! Travel down I did yesterday from Fort Ste. Anne, and divil a word +I knew till Pierre hit me in the eye wid it last night--and no time for +a present, for a wedding-gift--no, aw no!" + +Just here Ida reached up and touched him on the shoulder. He smiled down +on her, puffing and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to her, yet +knowing no word by signs to say; but he nodded his head at her, and +he patted Hilton's shoulder, and he took their hands and joined them +together, hers on top of Hilton's, and shook them in one of his own +till she almost winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who nodded +in reply, Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy to kiss--Macavoy, the idle, +ill-cared-for, boisterous giant. His face became red like that of a +child caught in an awkward act, and with an absurd shyness he stooped +and touched her cheek. Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, "Aw, +the rose o' the valley, the pride o' the wide wurruld! aw, the bloom o' +the hills! I'd have kissed her dirty shoe. McQuire!" + +A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear air of the prairie, and +the hills seemed to stir with the pleasure of life. Then it was that +Macavoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly stopped beside the +horse, drew from his pocket the promissory note that Pierre had written, +and said, "Yis, but all the weddin'-gifts aren't in. 'Tis nothin' I had +to give-divil a cent in the wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot +for the fire, or a bit av linin for the table; nothin' but meself and me +dirty clothes, standin' seven fut three an me bare toes. What was I to +do? There was only meself to give, so I give it free and hearty, and +here it is wid the Queen's head an it, done in Mr. Tarlton's office. +Ye'd better had had a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse, or a +saddle, or a quart o' brown brandy; but such as it is I give it ye--I +give it to the rose o' the valley and the star o' the wide wurruld." + +In a loud voice he read the promissory note, and handed it to Ida. Men +laughed till there were tears in their eyes, and a keg of whisky was +opened; but somehow Ida did not laugh. She and Pierre had seen a serious +side to Macavoy's gift: the childlike manliness in it. It went home to +her woman's heart without a touch of ludicrousness, without a sound of +laughter. + + + +III + +After a time the interest in this wedding-gift declined at Fort Guidon, +and but three people remembered it with any singular distinctness--Ida, +Pierre, and Macavoy. Pierre was interested, for in his primitive mind he +knew that, however wild a promise, life is so wild in its events, there +comes the hour for redemption of all I O U's. + +Meanwhile, weeks, months, and even a couple of years passed, Macavoy +and Pierre coming and going, sometimes together, sometimes not, in all +manner of words at war, in all manner of fact at peace. And Ida, out of +the bounty of her nature, gave the two vagabonds a place at her fireside +whenever they chose to come. Perhaps, where speech was not given, a gift +of divination entered into her instead, and she valued what others found +useless, and held aloof from what others found good. She had powers +which had ever been the admiration of Guidon Hill. Birds and animals +were her friends--she called them her kinsmen. A peculiar sympathy +joined them; so that when, at last, she tamed a white wild duck, and +made it do the duties of a carrier-pigeon, no one thought it strange. + +Up in the hills, beside the White Sun River, lived her sister and her +sister's children; and, by and by, the duck carried messages back and +forth, so that when, in the winter, Ida's health became delicate, she +had comfort in the solicitude and cheerfulness of her sister, and the +gaiety of the young birds of her nest, who sent Ida many a sprightly +message and tales of their good vagrancy in the hills. In these days +Pierre and Macavoy were little at the Post, save now and then to sit +with Hilton beside the fire, waiting for spring and telling tales. Upon +Hilton had settled that peaceful, abstracted expectancy which shows man +at his best, as he waits for the time when, through the half-lights of +his fatherhood, he shall see the broad fine dawn of motherhood spreading +up the world--which, all being said and done, is that place called Home. +Something gentle came over him while he grew stouter in body and in all +other ways made a larger figure among the people of the West. + +As Pierre said, whose wisdom was more to be trusted than his general +morality, "It is strange that most men think not enough of themselves +till a woman shows them how. But it is the great wonder that the woman +does not despise him for it. Quel caractere! She has so often to show +him his way like a babe, and yet she says to him, Mon grand homme! my +master! my lord! Pshaw! I have often thought that women are half saints, +half fools, and men half fools, half rogues. But Quelle vie!--what life! +without a woman you are half a man; with one you are bound to a single +spot in the world, you are tied by the leg, your wing is clipped--you +cannot have all. Quelle vie--what life!" + +To this Macavoy said: "Spit-spat! But what the devil good does all yer +thinkin' do ye, Pierre? It's argufy here and argufy there, an' while yer +at that, me an' the rest av us is squeezin' the fun out o' life. Aw, go +'long wid ye. Y'are only a bit o' hell and grammar, annyway. Wid all yer +cuttin' and carvin' things to see the internals av thim, I'd do more +to the call av a woman's finger than for all the logic and knowalogy y' +ever chewed--an' there y'are, me little tailor o' jur'sprudince!" + +"To the finger call of Hilton's wife, eh?" + +Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre's enigmatical tone meant. A wild +light showed in his eyes, and his tongue blundered out: "Yis, Hilton's +wife's finger, or a look av her eye, or nothin' at all. Aisy, aisy, ye +wasp! Ye'd go stalkin' divils in hell for her yerself, so ye would. But +the tongue av ye--but, it's gall to the tip." + +"Maybe, my king. But I'd go hunting because I wanted; you because you +must. You're a slave to come and to go, with a Queen's seal on the +promissory." + +Macavoy leaned back and roared. "Aw, that! The rose o' the valley--the +joy o' the wurruld! S't, Pierre--" his voice grew softer on a sudden, as +a fresh thought came to him--"did y' ever think that the child might be +dumb like the mother?" + +This was a day in the early spring, when the snows were melting in the +hills, and freshets were sweeping down the valleys far and near. That +night a warm heavy rain came on, and in the morning every stream and +river was swollen to twice its size. The mountains seemed to have +stripped themselves of snow, and the vivid sun began at once to colour +the foothills with green. As Pierre and Macavoy stood at their door, +looking out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy suddenly said: "Aw, +look, look, Pierre--her white duck off to the nest on Champak Hill!" + +They both shaded their eyes with their hands. Circling round two or +three times above the Post, the duck then stretched out its neck to the +west, and floated away beyond Guidon Hill, and was hid from view. + +Pierre, without a word, began cleaning his rifle, while Macavoy smoked, +and sat looking into the distance, surveying the sweet warmth and light. +His face blossomed with colour, and the look of his eyes was that of an +irresponsible child. Once or twice he smiled and puffed in his beard, +but perhaps that was involuntary, or was, maybe, a vague reflection of +his dreams, themselves most vague, for he was only soaking in sun and +air and life. + +Within an hour they saw the wild duck-again passing the crest of Guidon, +and they watched it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling +the gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams. But presently they were +altogether roused, the gun was put away, and both were on their feet; +for after the pigeon arrived there was a stir at the Post, and Hilton +could be seen running from the store to his house, not far away. + +"Something's wrong there," said Pierre. + +"D'ye think 'twas the duck brought it?" asked Macavoy. + +Without a word Pierre started away towards the Post, Macavoy following. +As they did so, a half-breed boy came from the house, hurrying towards +them. + +Inside the house Hilton's wife lay in her bed, her great hour coming on +before the time, because of ill news from beyond the Guidon. There was +with her an old Frenchwoman, who herself, in her time, had brought many +children into the world, whose heart brooded tenderly, if uncouthly, +over the dumb girl. She it was who had handed to Hilton the paper the +wild duck had brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in a faint on +the floor. + +The message that had felled the young wife was brief and awful. A +cloud-burst had fallen on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and +a part of this part had swept down into the path that led to the little +house, having been stopped by some falling trees and a great boulder. +It blocked the only way to escape above, and beneath, the river was +creeping up to sweep away the little house. So, there the mother and +her children waited (the father was in the farthest north), facing death +below and above. The wild duck had carried the tale in its terrible +simplicity. The last words were, "There mayn't be any help for me and +my sweet chicks, but I am still hoping, and you must send a man or many. +But send soon, for we are cut off, and the end may come any hour." + +Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post, and knew from Hilton all there +was to know. At once Pierre began to gather men, though what one or many +could do none could say. Eight white men and three Indians watched the +wild duck sailing away again from the bedroom window where Ida lay, to +carry a word of comfort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida asked for +Macavoy, and he was brought to her bedroom by Hilton. He saw a pale, +almost unearthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling with a coming +agony, looking up at him; and presently two trembling hands made +those mystic signs which are the primal language of the soul. Hilton +interpreted to him this: "I have sent for you. There is no man so big or +strong as you in the north. I did not know that I should ever ask you to +redeem the note. I want my gift, and I will give you your paper with the +Queen's head on it. Those little lives, those pretty little dears, you +will not see them die. If there is a way, any way, you will save them. +Sometimes one man can do what twenty cannot. You were my wedding-gift: I +claim you now." + +She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, who laid the piece of brown +paper in Macavoy's hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as if it +were a fragile bit of glass, something that his huge fingers might crush +by touching. Then he reached over and laid it on the bed beside her and +said, looking Hilton in the eyes, "Tell her, the slip av a saint she is, +if the breakin' av me bones, or the lettin' av me blood's what'll set +all right at Champak Hill, let her mind be aisy--aw yis!" + +Soon afterwards they were all on their way--all save Hilton, whose duty +was beside this other danger, for the old nurse said that, "like as +not," her life would hang upon the news from Champak Hill; and if ill +came, his place was beside the speechless traveller on the Brink. + +In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top of Champak Hill, looking +down. There stood the little house, as it were, between two dooms. Even +Pierre's face became drawn and pale as he saw what a very few hours or +minutes might do. Macavoy had spoken no word, had answered no +question since they had left the Post. There was in his eye the large +seriousness, the intentness which might be found in the face of a brave +boy, who had not learned fear, and yet saw a vast ditch of danger at +which he must leap. There was ever before him the face of the dumb +wife; there was in his ears the sound of pain that had followed him from +Hilton's house out into the brilliant day. + +The men stood helpless, and looked at each other. They could not say +to the river that it must rise no farther, and they could not go to the +house, nor let a rope down, and there was the crumbled moiety of +the hill which blocked the way to the house: elsewhere it was sheer +precipice without trees. + +There was no corner in these hills that Macavoy and Pierre did not know, +and at last, when despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, having +spoken a low word to Pierre, said: "There's wan way, an' maybe I can an' +maybe I can't, but I'm fit to try. I'll go up the river to an aisy p'int +a mile above, get in, and drift down to a p'int below there, thin climb +up and loose the stuff." + +Every man present knew the double danger: the swift headlong river, and +the sudden rush of rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the side of +the narrow ravine opposite the little house. Macavoy had nothing to say +to the head-shakes of the others, and they did not try to dissuade him; +for women and children were in the question, and there they were +below beside the house, the children gathered round the mother, she +waiting--waiting. + +Macavoy, stripped to the waist, and carrying only a hatchet and a coil +of rope tied round him, started away alone up the river. The others +waited, now and again calling comfort to the woman below, though their +words could not be heard. About half an hour passed, and then someone +called out: "Here he comes!" Presently they could see the rough head and +the bare shoulders of the giant in the wild churning stream. There was +only one point where he could get a hold on the hillside--the jutting +bole of a tree just beneath them, and beneath the dyke of rock and +trees. + +It was a great moment. The current swayed him out, but he plunged +forward, catching at the bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held +him an instant, as he was swung round, then it snapt. But the other hand +clenched the bole, and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, Macavoy +drew himself up. After that they could not see him. He alone was +studying the situation. + +He found the key-rock to the dyked slide of earth. To loosen it was to +divert the slide away, or partly away, from the little house. But it +could not be loosened from above, if at all, and he himself would be in +the path of the destroying hill. + +"Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy," he said to himself. "It's the woman and the +darlins av her, an' the rose o' the valley down there at the Post!" + +A minute afterwards, having chopped down a hickory sapling, he began to +pry at the boulder which held the mass. Presently a tree came crashing +down, and a small rush of earth followed it, and the hearts of the men +above and the woman and children below stood still for an instant. +An hour passed as Macavoy toiled with a strange careful skill and a +superhuman concentration. His body was all shining with sweat, and sweat +dripped like water from his forehead. His eyes were on the keyrock and +the pile, alert, measuring, intent. At last he paused. He looked round +at the hills-down at the river, up at the sky-humanity was shut away +from his sight. He was alone. A long hot breath broke from his pressed +lips, stirring his big red beard. Then he gave a call, a long call that +echoed through the hills weirdly and solemnly. + +It reached the ears of those above like a greeting from an outside +world. They answered, "Right, Macavoy!" + +Years afterwards these men told how then there came in reply one word, +ringing roundly through the hills--the note and symbol of a crisis, the +fantastic cipher of a soul: + +"M'Guire!" + +There was a loud booming sound, the dyke was loosed, the ravine split +into the swollen stream its choking mouthful of earth and rock; and a +minute afterwards the path was clear to the top of Champak Hill. To it +came the unharmed children and their mother, who, from the warm peak +sent the wild duck "to the rose o' the valley," which, till the message +came, was trembling on the stem of life. But Joy, that marvellous +healer, kept it blooming with a little Eden bird nestling near, whose +happy tongue was taught in after years to tell of the gift of the Simple +King; who had redeemed, on demand, the promissory note for ever. + + + + +MALACHI + +"He'll swing just the same to-morrow. Exit Malachi!" said Freddy Tarlton +gravely. + +The door suddenly opened on the group of gossips, and a man stepped +inside and took the only vacant seat near the fire. He glanced at none, +but stretched out his hands to the heat, looking at the coals with +drooping introspective eyes. + +"Exit Malachi," he said presently in a soft ironical voice, but did not +look up. + +"By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you spring from?" asked Tarlton +genially. + +"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and--" Pierre responded, with a +little turn of his fingers. + +"And the wind doesn't tell where it's been, but that's no reason Pierre +shouldn't," urged the other. + +Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. "He was a tough," +said a voice from the crowd. "To-morrow he'll get the breakfast +he's paid for." Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with a cold +inquisitive stare. "Mon Dieu!" he said presently, "here's this Gohawk +playing preacher. What do you know of Malachi, Gohawk? What do any of +you know about Malachi? A little of this, a little of that, a drink +here, a game of euchre there, a ride after cattle, a hunt behind Guidon +Hill!--But what is that? You have heard the cry of the eagle, you have +seen him carry off a lamb, you have had a pot-shot at him, but what do +you know of the eagle's nest? Mais non. + +"The lamb is one thing, the nest is another. You don't know the eagle +till you've been there. And you, Gohawk, would not understand, if you +saw the nest. Such cancan!" + +"Shut your mouth!" broke out Gohawk. "D'ye think I'm going to stand +your--" + +Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm. "Keep quiet, Gohawk. What good +will it do?" Then he said, "Tell us about the nest, Pierre; they're +hanging him for the lamb in the morning." + +"Who spoke for him at the trial?" Pierre asked. + +"I did," said Tarlton. "I spoke as well as I could, but the game was +dead against him from the start. The sheriff was popular, and young; +young--that was the thing; handsome too, and the women, of course! It +was sure from the start; besides, Malachi would say nothing--didn't seem +to care." + +"No, not to care," mused Pierre. "What did you say for him to the +jury--I mean the devil of a thing to make them sit up and think, 'Poor +Malachi!'--like that." + +"Best speech y'ever heard," Gohawk interjected; "just emptied the words +out, split 'em like peas, by gol! till he got to one place right before +the end. Then he pulled up sudden, and it got so quiet you could +'a heard a pin drop. 'Gen'lemen of the jury,' says Freddy Tarlton +here--gen'lemen, by gol! all that lot--Lagan and the rest! 'Gen'lemen of +the jury,' he says, 'be you danged well sure that you're at one with +God A'mighty in this; that you've got at the core of justice here; that +you've got evidence to satisfy Him who you've all got to satisfy some +day, or git out. Not evidence as to shootin', but evidence as to what +that shootin' meant, an' whether it was meant to kill, an' what for. +The case is like this, gen'lemen of the jury,' says Freddy Tarlton here. +'Two men are in a street alone. There's a shot, out comes everybody, and +sees Fargo the sheriff laid along the ground, his mouth in the dust, and +a full-up gun in his fingers. Not forty feet away stands Malachi with +a gun smokin' in his fist. It seems to be the opinion that it was +cussedness--just cussedness--that made Malachi turn the sheriff's boots +to the sun. For Malachi was quarrelsome. I'll give you a quarter on +that. And the sheriff was mettlesome, used to have high spirits, like as +if he's lift himself over the fence with his bootstraps. So when Malachi +come and saw the sheriff steppin' round in his paten' leathers, it +give him the needle, and he got a bead on him--and away went Sheriff +Fargo--right away! That seems to be the sense of the public.' And he +stops again, soft and quick, and looks the twelve in the eyes at once. +'But,' says Freddy Tarlton here, 'are you goin' to hang a man on the +little you know? Or are you goin' to credit him with somethin' of what +you don't know? You haint got the inside of this thing, and Malachi +doesn't let you know it, and God keeps quiet. But be danged well sure +that you've got the bulge on iniquity here; for gen'lemen with pistols +out in the street is one thing, and sittin' weavin' a rope in a +court-room for a man's neck is another thing,' says Freddy Tarlton here. +'My client has refused to say one word this or that way, but don't be +sure that Some One that knows the inside of things won't speak for +him in the end.' Then he turns and looks at Malachi, and Malachi was +standin' still and steady like a tree, but his face was white, and sweat +poured on his forehead. 'If God has no voice to be heard for my +client in this court-room to-day, is there no one on earth--no man or +woman--who can speak for one who won't speak for himself?' says Freddy +Tarlton here. Then, by gol! for the first time Malachi opened. 'There's +no one,' he says. 'The speakin' is all for the sheriff. But I spoke +once, and the sheriff didn't answer.' Not a bit of beg-yer-pardon in it. +It struck cold. 'I leave his case in the hands of twelve true men,' says +Freddy Tarlton here, and he sits down." + +"So they said he must walk the air?" suggested Pierre. + +"Without leavin' their seats," someone added instantly. + +"So. But that speech of 'Freddy Tarlton here'?" "It was worth twelve +drinks to me, no more, and nothing at all to Malachi," said Tarlton. +"When I said I'd come to him to-night to cheer him up, he said he'd +rather sleep. The missionary, too, he can make nothing of him. 'I don't +need anyone here,' he says. 'I eat this off my own plate.' And that's +the end of Malachi." + +"Because there was no one to speak for him--eh? Well, well." + +"If he'd said anything that'd justify the thing--make it a manslaughter +business or a quarrel--then! But no, not a word, up or down, high or +low. Exit Malachi!" rejoined Freddy Tarlton sorrowfully. "I wish he'd +given me half a chance." + +"I wish I'd been there," said Pierre, taking a match from Gohawk, and +lighting his cigarette. + +"To hear his speech?" asked Gohawk, nodding towards Tarlton. + +"To tell the truth about it all. T'sh, you bats, you sheep, what have +you in your skulls? When a man will not speak, will not lie to gain a +case for his lawyer--or save himself, there is something! Now, listen to +me, and I will tell you the story of Malachi. Then you shall judge. + +"I never saw such a face as that girl had down there at Lachine in +Quebec. I knew her when she was a child, and I knew Malachi when he was +on the river with the rafts, the foreman of a gang. He had a look all +open then as the sun--yes. Happy? Yes, as happy as a man ought to be. +Well, the mother of the child died, and Malachi alone was left to take +care of the little Norice. He left the river and went to work in the +mills, so that he might be with the child; and when he got to be foreman +there he used to bring her to the mill. He had a basket swung for her +just inside the mill not far from him, right where she was in the shade; +but if she stretched out her hand it would be in the sun. I've seen a +hundred men turn to look at her where she swung, singing to herself, and +then chuckle to themselves afterwards as they worked. + +"When Trevoor, the owner, come one day, and saw her, he swore, and was +going to sack Malachi, but the child--that little Norice--leaned over +the basket, and offered him an apple. He looked for a minute, then +he reached up, took the apple, turned round, and went out of the mill +without a word--so. Next month when he come he walked straight to her, +and handed up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle. 'That's to call +me when you want me,' he said, as he put the whistle to her lips, and +then he put the gold string of it round her neck. She was a wise little +thing, that Norice, and noticed things. I don't believe that Trevoor or +Malachi ever knew how sweet was the smell of the fresh sawdust till +she held it to their noses; and it was she that had the saws--all +sizes--start one after the other, making so strange a tune. She made up +a little song about fairies and others to sing to that tune. And no one +ever thought much about Indian Island, off beyond the sweating, baking +piles of lumber, and the blistering logs and timbers in the bay, till +she told stories about it. Sure enough, when you saw the shut doors and +open windows of those empty houses, all white without in the sun and +dark within, and not a human to be seen, you could believe almost +anything. You can think how proud Malachi was. She used to get plenty of +presents from the men who had no wives or children to care for--little +silver and gold things as well as others. She was fond of them, but no, +not vain. She loved the gold and silver for their own sake." + +Pierre paused. "I knew a youngster once," said Gohawk, "that--" + +Pierre waved his hand. "I am not through, M'sieu' Gohawk the talker. +Years went on. Now she took care of the house of Malachi. She wore the +whistle that Trevoor gave her. He kept saying to her still, 'If ever you +need me, little Norice, blow it, and I will come.' He was droll, that +M'sieu' Trevoor, at times. Well, she did not blow, but still he used to +come every year, and always brought her something. One year he brought +his nephew, a young fellow of about twenty-three. She did not whistle +for him either, but he kept on coming. That was the beginning of 'Exit +Malachi.' The man was clever and bad, the girl believing and good. He +was young, but he knew how to win a woman's heart. When that is done, +there is nothing more to do--she is yours for good or evil; and if a +man, through a woman's love, makes her to sin, even his mother cannot +be proud of him-no. But the man married Norice, and took her away to +Madison, down in Wisconsin. Malachi was left alone--Malachi and Trevoor, +for Trevoor felt towards her as a father. + +"Alors, sorrow come to the girl, for her husband began to play cards +and to drink, and he lost much money. There was the trouble--the +two together. They lived in a hotel. One day a lady missed a diamond +necklace from her room. Norice had been with her the evening before. +Norice come into her own room the next afternoon, and found detectives +searching. In her own jewel-case, which was tucked away in the pocket +of an old dress, was found the necklace. She was arrested. She said +nothing--for she waited for her husband, who was out of town that day. +He only come in time to see her in court next morning. She did not deny +anything; she was quiet, like Malachi. The man played his part well. He +had hid the necklace where he thought it would be safe, but when it was +found, he let the wife take the blame--a little innocent thing. People +were sorry for them both. She was sent to jail. Her father was away in +the Rocky Mountains, and he did not hear; Trevoor was in Europe. The +husband got a divorce, and was gone. Norice was in jail for over a year, +and then she was set free, for her health went bad, and her mind was +going, they thought. She did not know till she come out that she was +divorced. Then she nearly died. But then Trevoor come." + +Freddy Tarlton's hands were cold with excitement, and his fingers +trembled so he could hardly light a cigar. + +"Go on, go on, Pierre," he said huskily. + +"Trevoor said to her--he told me this himself--'Why did you not whistle +for me, Norice? A word would have brought me from Europe.' 'No one could +help me, no one at all,' she answered. Then Trevoor said, 'I know who +did it, for he has robbed me too.' She sank in a heap on the floor. 'I +could have borne it and anything for him, if he hadn't divorced me,' +she said. Then they cleared her name before the world. But where was the +man? No one knew. At last Malachi, in the Rocky Mountains, heard of her +trouble, for Norice wrote to him, but told him not to do the man any +harm, if he ever found him--ah, a woman, a woman!... But Malachi met the +man one day at Guidon Hill, and shot him in the street." + +"Fargo the sheriff!" roared half-a-dozen voices. "Yes; he had changed +his name, had come up here, and because he was clever and spent money, +and had a pull on someone,--got it at cards perhaps,--he was made +sheriff." + +"In God's name, why didn't Malachi speak?" said Tarlton; "why didn't he +tell me this?" + +"Because he and I had our own plans. The one evidence he wanted was +Norice. If she would come to him in his danger, and in spite of his +killing the man, good. If not, then he would die. Well, I went to find +her and fetch her. I found her. There was no way to send word, so we had +to come on as fast as we could. We have come just in time." + +"Do you mean to say, Pierre, that she's here?" said Gohawk. + +Pierre waved his hand emphatically. "And so we came on with a pardon." + +Every man was on his feet, every man's tongue was loosed, and each +ordered liquor for Pierre, and asked him where the girl was. Freddy +Tarlton wrung his hand, and called a boy to go to his rooms and bring +three bottles of wine, which he had kept for two years, to drink when he +had won his first big case. + +Gohawk was importunate. "Where is the girl, Pierre?" he urged. + +"Such a fool as you are, Gohawk! She is with her father." + +A half-hour later, in a large sitting-room, Freddy Tarlton was making +eloquent toasts over the wine. As they all stood drinking to Pierre, +the door opened from the hall-way, and Malachi stood before them. At his +shoulder was a face, wistful, worn, yet with a kind of happiness too; +and the eyes had depths which any man might be glad to drown his heart +in. + +Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe or awkwardness fell on the +group at the table. + +But Norice stepped forward a little, and said: "May we come in?" + +In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side, and had her by the hand, +her and her father, drawing them over. + +His ardent, admiring look gave Norice thought for many a day. + +And that night Pierre made an accurate prophecy. + + + + +THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE + +When Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it was so called, Pierre said: +"Because of the Great Slave;" and then paused. + +Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his whims. If he wished to tell, +he would in his own time; if not, nothing could draw it from him. It was +nearly an hour before Pierre, eased off from the puzzle he was solving +with bits of paper and obliged Tybalt. He began as if they had been +speaking the moment before: + +"They have said it is legend, but I know better. I have seen the records +of the Company, and it is all there. I was at Fort O'Glory once, and in +a box two hundred years old the factor and I found it. There were other +papers, and some of them had large red seals, and a name scrawled along +the end of the page." + +Pierre shook his head, as if in contented musing. He was a born +story-teller. Tybalt was aching with interest, for he scented a thing of +note. + +"How did any of those papers, signed with a scrawl, begin?" he asked. + +"'To our dearly-beloved,' or something like that," answered Pierre. +"There were letters also. Two of them were full of harsh words, and +these were signed with the scrawl." + +"What was that scrawl?" asked Tybalt. + +Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two words with his finger. "Like +that," he answered. + +Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and then drew a long breath. +"Charles Rex," he said, hardly above his breath. + +Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. "That name was droll, eh?" + +Tybalt's blood was tingling with the joy of discovery. "It is a great +name," he said shortly. + +"The Slave was great--the Indians said so at the last." + +"But that was not the name of the Slave?" + +"Mais non. Who said so! Charles Rex--like that! was the man who wrote +the letters." + +"To the Great Slave?" + +Pierre made a gesture of impatience. "Very sure." + +"Where are those letters now?" + +"With the Governor of the Company." Tybalt cut the tobacco for his +pipe savagely. "You'd have liked one of those papers?" asked Pierre +provokingly. + +"I'd give five hundred dollars for one," broke out Tybalt. + +Pierre lifted his eyebrows. "T'sh, what's the good of five hundred +dollars up here? What would you do with a letter like that?" + +Tybalt laughed with a touch of irony, for Pierre was clearly "rubbing it +in." + +"Perhaps for a book?" gently asked Pierre. + +"Yes, if you like." + +"It is a pity. But there is a way." + +"How?" + +"Put me in the book. Then--" + +"How does that touch the case?" + +Pierre shrugged a shoulder gently, for he thought Tybalt was unusually +obtuse. Tybalt thought so himself before the episode ended. + +"Go on," he said, with clouded brow, but interested eye. Then, as if +with sudden thought: "To whom were the letters addressed, Pierre?" + +"Wait!" was the reply. "One letter said: 'Good cousin, We are evermore +glad to have thee and thy most excelling mistress near us. So, fail +us not at our cheerful doings, yonder at Highgate.' Another--a year +after--said: 'Cousin, for the sweetening of our mind, get thee gone into +some distant corner of our pasturage--the farthest doth please us most. +We would not have thee on foreign ground, for we bear no ill-will to our +brother princes, and yet we would not have thee near our garden of good +loyal souls, for thou hast a rebel heart and a tongue of divers tunes. +Thou lovest not the good old song of duty to thy prince. Obeying us, thy +lady shall keep thine estates untouched; failing obedience, thou wilt +make more than thy prince unhappy. Fare thee well.' That was the way of +two letters," said Pierre. + +"How do you remember so?" + +Pierre shrugged a shoulder again. "It is easy with things like that." + +"But word for word?" + +"I learned it word for word." + +"Now for the story of the Lake--if you won't tell me the name of the +man." + +"The name afterwards-perhaps. Well, he came to that farthest corner of +the pasturage, to the Hudson's Bay country, two hundred years ago. What +do you think? Was he so sick of all, that he would go so far he could +never get back? Maybe those 'cheerful doings' at Highgate, eh? And the +lady--who can tell?" + +Tybalt seized Pierre's arm. "You know more. Damnation, can't you see I'm +on needles to hear? Was there anything in the letters about the lady? +Anything more than you've told?" + +Pierre liked no man's hand on him. He glanced down at the eager fingers, +and said coldly: + +"You are a great man; you can tell a story in many ways, but I in one +way alone, and that is my way--mais oui!" + +"Very well, take your own time." + +"Bien. I got the story from two heads. If you hear a thing like that +from Indians, you call it 'legend'; if from the Company's papers, you +call it 'history.' Well, in this there is not much difference. The +papers tell precise the facts; the legend gives the feeling, is more +true. How can you judge the facts if you don't know the feeling? No! +what is bad turns good sometimes, when you know the how, the feeling, +the place. Well, this story of the Great Slave--eh?... There is a race +of Indians in the far north who have hair so brown like yours, m'sieu', +and eyes no darker. It is said they are of those that lived at the Pole, +before the sea swamped the Isthmus, and swallowed up so many islands. +So. In those days the fair race came to the south for the first time, +that is, far below the Circle. They had their women with them. I have +seen those of to-day: fine and tall, with breasts like apples, and +a cheek to tempt a man like you, m'sieu'; no grease in the hair--no, +M'sieu' Tybalt." + +Tybalt sat moveless under the obvious irony, but his eyes were fixed +intently on Pierre, his mind ever travelling far ahead of the tale. + +"Alors: the 'good cousin' of Charles Rex, he made a journey with two men +to the Far-off Metal River, and one day this tribe from the north come +on his camp. It was summer, and they were camping in the Valley of the +Young Moon, more sweet, they say, than any in the north. The Indians +cornered them. There was a fight, and one of the Company's men was +killed, and five of the other. But when the king of the people of the +Pole saw that the great man was fair of face, he called for the fight to +stop. + +"There was a big talk all by signs, and the king said for the great +man to come and be one with them, for they liked his fair face--their +forefathers were fair like him. He should have the noblest of their +women for his wife, and be a prince among them. He would not go: so they +drew away again and fought. A stone-axe brought the great man to the +ground. He was stunned, not killed. Then the other man gave up, and said +he would be one of them if they would take him. They would have killed +him but for one of their women. She said that he should live to tell +them tales of the south country and the strange people, when they came +again to their camp-fires. So they let him live, and he was one of them. +But the chief man, because he was stubborn and scorned them, and had +killed the son of their king in the fight, they made a slave, and +carried him north a captive, till they came to this lake--the Lake of +the Great Slave. + +"In all ways they tried him, but he would not yield, neither to wear +their dress nor to worship their gods. He was robbed of his clothes, of +his gold-handled dagger, his belt of silk and silver, his carbine with +rich chasing, and all, and he was among them almost naked,--it was +summer, as I said, yet defying them. He was taller by a head than any of +them, and his white skin rippled in the sun like soft steel." + +Tybalt was inclined to ask Pierre how he knew all this, but he held his +peace. Pierre, as if divining his thoughts, continued: + +"You ask how I know these things. Very good: there are the legends, and +there were the papers of the Company. The Indians tried every way, but +it was no use; he would have nothing to say to them. At last they came +to this lake. Now something great occurred. The woman who had been the +wife of the king's dead son, her heart went out in love of the Great +Slave; but he never looked at her. One day there were great sports, for +it was the feast of the Red Star. The young men did feats of strength, +here on this ground where we sit. The king's wife called out for the +Great Slave to measure strength with them all. He would not stir. The +king commanded him; still he would not, but stood among them silent and +looking far away over their heads. At last, two young men of good height +and bone threw arrows at his bare breast. The blood came in spots. Then +he gave a cry through his beard, and was on them like a lion. He caught +them, one in each arm, swung them from the ground, and brought their +heads together with a crash, breaking their skulls, and dropped them at +his feet. Catching up a long spear, he waited for the rest. But they did +not come, for, with a loud voice, the king told them to fall back, and +went and felt the bodies of the men. One of them was dead; the other was +his second son--he would live. + +"'It is a great deed,' said the king, 'for these were no children, but +strong men.' + +"Then again he offered the Great Slave women to marry, and fifty tents +of deerskin for the making of a village. But the Great Slave said no, +and asked to be sent back to Fort O'Glory. + +"The king refused. But that night, as he slept in his tent, the +girl-widow came to him, waked him, and told him to follow her. He came +forth, and she led him softly through the silent camp to that wood which +we see over there. He told her she need not go on. Without a word, she +reached over and kissed him on the breast. Then he understood. He +told her that she could not come with him, for there was that lady in +England--his wife, eh? But never mind, that will come. He was too great +to save his life, or be free at the price. Some are born that way. They +have their own commandments, and they keep them. + +"He told her that she must go back. She gave a little cry, and sank down +at his feet, saying that her life would be in danger if she went back. + +"Then he told her to come, for it was in his mind to bring her to Fort +O'Glory, where she could marry an Indian there. But now she would not +go with him, and turned towards the village. A woman is a strange +creature--yes, like that! He refused to go and leave her. She was in +danger, and he would share it, whatever it might be. So, though she +prayed him not, he went back with her; and when she saw that he would go +in spite of all, she was glad: which is like a woman. + +"When he entered the tent again, he guessed her danger, for he stepped +over the bodies of two dead men. She had killed them. As she turned at +the door to go to her own tent, another woman faced her. It was the wife +of the king, who had suspected, and had now found out. Who can tell +what it was? Jealousy, perhaps. The Great Slave could tell, maybe, if he +could speak, for a man always knows when a woman sets him high. Anyhow, +that was the way it stood. In a moment the girl was marched back to her +tent, and all the camp heard a wicked lie of the widow of the king's +son. + +"To it there was an end after the way of their laws. + +"The woman should die by fire, and the man, as the king might will. So +there was a great gathering in the place where we are, and the king sat +against that big white stone, which is now as it was then. Silence was +called, and they brought the girl-widow forth. The king spoke: + +"'Thou who hadst a prince for thy husband, didst go in the night to the +tent of the slave who killed thy husband; whereby thou also becamest a +slave, and didst shame the greatness which was given thee. Thou shalt +die, as has been set in our laws.' + +"The girl-widow rose, and spoke. 'I did not know, O king, that he whom +thou madest a slave slew my husband, the prince of our people, and thy +son. That was not told me. But had I known it, still would I have set +him free, for thy son was killed in fair battle, and this man deserves +not slavery or torture. I did seek the tent of the Great Slave, and it +was to set him free--no more. For that did I go, and, for the rest, my +soul is open to the Spirit Who Sees. I have done naught, and never did, +nor ever will, that might shame a king, or the daughter of a king, or +the wife of a king, or a woman. If to set a great captive free is death +for me, then am I ready. I will answer all pure women in the far Camp of +the Great Fires without fear. There is no more, O king, that I may say, +but this: she who dies by fire, being of noble blood, may choose who +shall light the faggots--is it not so?' + +"Then the king replied: 'It is so. Such is our law.' + +"There was counselling between the king and his oldest men, and so long +were they handling the matter backwards and forwards that it seemed she +might go free. But the king's wife, seeing, came and spoke to the king +and the others, crying out for the honour of her dead son; so that in a +moment of anger they all cried out for death. + +"When the king said again to the girl that she must die by fire, she +answered: 'It is as the gods will. But it is so, as I said, that I may +choose who shall light the fires?' + +"The king answered yes, and asked her whom she chose. She pointed +towards the Great Slave. And all, even the king and his councillors, +wondered, for they knew little of the heart of women. What is a man with +a matter like that? Nothing--nothing at all. They would have set this +for punishment: that she should ask for it was beyond them. Yes, even +the king's wife--it was beyond her. But the girl herself, see you, was +it not this way?--If she died by the hand of him she loved, then it +would be easy, for she could forget the pain, in the thought that his +heart would ache for her, and that at the very last he might care, and +she should see it. She was great in her way also--that girl, two hundred +years ago. + +"Alors, they led her a little distance off,--there is the spot, where +you see the ground heave a little, and the Great Slave was brought up. +The king told him why the girl was to die. He went like stone, looking, +looking at them. He knew that the girl's heart was like a little +child's, and the shame and cruelty of the thing froze him silent for a +minute, and the colour flew from his face to here and there on his body, +as a flame on marble. The cords began to beat and throb in his neck and +on his forehead, and his eyes gave out fire like flint on an arrow-head. + +"Then he began to talk. He could not say much, for he knew so little of +their language. But it was 'No!' every other word. 'No--no--no--no!' the +words ringing from his chest. 'She is good!' he said. 'The other-no!' +and he made a motion with his hand. 'She must not die--no! Evil? It is +a lie! I will kill each man that says it, one by one, if he dares come +forth. She tried to save me--well?' Then he made them know that he was +of high place in a far country, and that a man like him would not tell a +lie. That pleased the king, for he was proud, and he saw that the Slave +was of better stuff than himself. Besides, the king was a brave man, and +he had strength, and more than once he had laid his hand on the chest +of the other, as one might on a grand animal. Perhaps, even then, they +might have spared the girl was it not for the queen. She would not hear +of it. Then they tried the Great Slave, and he was found guilty. The +queen sent him word to beg for pardon. So he stood out and spoke to the +queen. She sat up straight, with pride in her eyes, for was it not a +great prince, as she thought, asking? But a cloud fell on her face, for +he begged the girl's life. Since there must be death, let him die, and +die by fire in her place! It was then two women cried out: the poor girl +for joy--not at the thought that her life would be saved, but because +she thought the man loved her now, or he would not offer to die for her; +and the queen for hate, because she thought the same. You can guess the +rest: they were both to die, though the king was sorry for the man. + +"The king's speaker stood out and asked them if they had anything to +say. The girl stepped forward, her face without any fear, but a kind of +noble pride in it, and said: 'I am ready, O king.' + +"The Great Slave bowed his head, and was thinking much. They asked him +again, and he waved his hand at them. The king spoke up in anger, and +then he smiled and said: 'O king, I am not ready; if I die, I die.' Then +he fell to thinking again. But once more the king spoke: 'Thou shalt +surely die, but not by fire, nor now; nor till we have come to our great +camp in our own country. There thou shalt die. But the woman shall die +at the going down of the sun. She shall die by fire, and thou shalt +light the faggots for the burning.' + +"The Great Slave said he would not do it, not though he should die a +hundred deaths. Then the king said that it was the woman's right to +choose who should start the fire, and he had given his word, which +should not be broken. + +"When the Great Slave heard this he was wild for a little, and then he +guessed altogether what was in the girl's mind. Was not this the true +thing in her, the very truest? Mais oui! That was what she wished--to +die by his hand rather than by any other; and something troubled his +breast, and a cloud came in his eyes, so that for a moment he could +not see. He looked at the girl, so serious, eye to eye. Perhaps she +understood. So, after a time, he got calm as the farthest light in the +sky, his face shining among them all with a look none could read. He sat +down, and wrote upon pieces of bark with a spear-point--those bits of +bark I have seen also at Fort O'Glory. He pierced them through with +dried strings of the slippery-elm tree, and with the king's consent gave +them to the Company's man, who had become one of the people, telling +him, if ever he was free, or could send them to the Company, he must do +so. The man promised, and shame came upon him that he had let the other +suffer alone; and he said he was willing to fight and die if the Great +Slave gave the word. But he would not; and he urged that it was right +for the man to save his life. For himself, no. It could never be; and if +he must die, he must die. + +"You see, a great man must always live alone and die alone, when there +are only such people about him. So, now that the letters were written, +he sat upon the ground and thought, looking often towards the girl, who +was placed apart, with guards near. The king sat thinking also. He could +not guess why the Great Slave should give the letters now, since he was +not yet to die, nor could the Company's man show a reason when the king +asked him. So the king waited, and told the guards to see that the Great +Slave did not kill himself. + +"But the queen wanted the death of the girl, and was glad beyond telling +that the Slave must light the faggots. She was glad when she saw the +young braves bring a long sapling from the forest, and, digging a hole, +put it stoutly in the ground, and fetch wood, and heap it about. + +"The Great Slave noted that the bark of the sapling had not been +stripped, and more than once he measured, with his eye, the space +between the stake and the shores of the Lake: he did this most private, +so that no one saw but the girl. + +"At last the time was come. The Lake was all rose and gold out there in +the west, and the water so still so still. The cool, moist scent of the +leaves and grass came out from the woods and up from the plain, and the +world was so full of content that a man's heart could cry out, even as +now, while we look--eh, is it not good? See the deer drinking on +the other shore there!" Suddenly Pierre became silent, as if he had +forgotten the story altogether. Tybalt was impatient, but he did not +speak. He took a twig, and in the sand he wrote "Charles Rex." Pierre +glanced down and saw it. + +"There was beating of the little drums," he continued, "and the crying +of the king's speaker; and soon all was ready, and the people gathered +at a distance, and the king and the queen, and the chief men nearer; and +the girl was brought forth. + +"As they led her past the Great Slave, she looked into his eyes, and +afterwards her heart was glad, for she knew that at the last he would be +near her, and that his hand should light the fires. Two men tied her to +the stake. Then the king's man cried out again, telling of her crime, +and calling for her death. The Great Slave was brought near. No one knew +that the palms of his hands had been rubbed in the sand for a purpose. +When he was brought beside the stake, a torch was given him by his +guards. He looked at the girl, and she smiled at him, and said: +'Good-bye. Forgive. I die not afraid, and happy.' + +"He did not answer, but stooped and lit the sticks here and there. All +at once he snatched a burning stick, and it and the torch he thrust, +like lightning, in the faces of his guards, blinding them. Then he +sprang to the stake, and, with a huge pull, tore it from the ground, +girl and all, and rushed to the shore of the Lake, with her tied so in +his arms. + +"He had been so swift that, at first, no one stirred. He reached the +shore, rushed into the water, dragging a boat out with one hand as he +did so, and, putting the girl in, seized a paddle and was away with a +start. A few strokes, and then he stopped, picked up a hatchet that was +in the boat with many spears, and freed the girl. Then he paddled on, +trusting, with a small hope, that through his great strength he could +keep ahead till darkness came, and then, in the gloom, they might +escape. The girl also seized an oar, and the canoe--the king's own +canoe--came on like a swallow. + +"But the tribe was after them in fifty canoes, some coming straight +along, some spreading out to close in later. It was no equal game, for +these people were so quick and strong with the oars, and they were a +hundred or more to two. There could be but one end. It was what the +Great Slave had looked for: to fight till the last breath. He should +fight for the woman who had risked all for him--just a common woman of +the north, but it seemed good to lose his life for her; and she would be +happy to die with him. + +"So they stood side by side when the spears and arrows fell round them, +and they gave death and wounds for wounds in their own bodies. When, at +last, the Indians climbed into the canoe, the Great Slave was dead of +many wounds, and the woman, all gashed, lay with her lips to his wet, +red cheek. She smiled as they dragged her away; and her soul hurried +after his to the Camp of the Great Fires." + +It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last he said: "If I could but +tell it as you have told it to me, Pierre!" Pierre answered: "Tell it +with your tongue, and this shall be nothing to it, for what am I? What +English have I, a gipsy of the snows? But do not write it, mais non! +Writing wanders from the matter. The eyes, and the tongue, and the time, +that is the thing. But in a book--it will sound all cold and thin. It +is for the north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk before a man rolls +into his blanket, and is at peace. No, no writing, monsieur. Speak it +everywhere with your tongue." + +"And so I would, were my tongue as yours. Pierre, tell me more about the +letters at Fort O'Glory. You know his name--what was it?" + +"You said five hundred dollars for one of those letters. Is it not?" + +"Yes." Tybalt had a new hope. + +"T'sh! What do I want of five hundred dollars! But, here, answer me a +question: Was the lady--his wife, she that was left in England--a good +woman? Answer me out of your own sense, and from my story. If you say +right you shall have a letter--one that I have by me." + +Tybalt's heart leapt into his throat. After a little he said huskily: +"She was a good woman--he believed her that, and so shall I." + +"You think he could not have been so great unless, eh? And that 'Charles +Rex,' what of him?" + +"What good can it do to call him bad now?" Without a word, Pierre drew +from a leather wallet a letter, and, by the light of the fast-setting +sun, Tybalt read it, then read it again, and yet again. + +"Poor soul! poor lady!" he said. "Was ever such another letter written +to any man? And it came too late; this, with the king's recall, came too +late!" + +"So--so. He died out there where that wild duck flies--a Great Slave. +Years after, the Company's man brought word of all." + +Tybalt was looking at the name on the outside of the letter. + +"How do they call that name?" asked Pierre. "It is like none I've +seen--no." + +Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did not answer. + + + + +THE RED PATROL + +St. Augustine's, Canterbury, had given him its licentiate's hood, the +Bishop of Rupert's Land had ordained him, and the North had swallowed +him up. He had gone forth with surplice, stole, hood, a sermon-case, the +prayer-book, and that other Book of all. Indian camps, trappers' huts, +and Company's posts had given him hospitality, and had heard him with +patience and consideration. At first he wore the surplice, stole, and +hood, took the eastward position, and intoned the service, and no man +said him nay, but watched him curiously and was sorrowful--he was so +youthful, clear of eye, and bent on doing heroical things. + +But little by little there came a change. The hood was left behind at +Fort O'Glory, where it provoked the derision of the Methodist missionary +who followed him; the sermon-case stayed at Fort O'Battle; and at last +the surplice itself was put by at the Company's post at Yellow Quill. +He was too excited and in earnest at first to see the effect of his +ministrations, but there came slowly over him the knowledge that he was +talking into space. He felt something returning on him out of the air +into which he talked, and buffeting him. It was the Spirit of the North, +in which lives the terror, the large heart of things, the soul of the +past. He awoke to his inadequacy, to the fact that all these men to +whom he talked, listened, and only listened, and treated him with a +gentleness which was almost pity--as one might a woman. He had talked +doctrine, the Church, the sacraments, and at Fort O'Battle he +faced definitely the futility of his work. What was to blame--the +Church--religion--himself? + +It was at Fort O'Battle that he met Pierre, and heard a voice say over +his shoulder, as he walked out into the icy dusk: "The voice of one +crying in the wilderness... and he had sackcloth about his loins, and +his food was locusts and wild honey." + +He turned to see Pierre, who in the large room of the Post had sat and +watched him as he prayed and preached. He had remarked the keen, curious +eye, the musing look, the habitual disdain at the lips. It had all +touched him, confused him; and now he had a kind of anger. + +"You know it so well, why don't you preach yourself?" he said +feverishly. + +"I have been preaching all my life," Pierre answered drily. + +"The devil's games: cards and law-breaking; and you sneer at men who try +to bring lost sheep into the fold." + +"The fold of the Church--yes, I understand all that," Pierre answered. +"I have heard you and the priests of my father's Church talk. Which is +right? But as for me, I am a missionary. Cards, law-breaking--these are +what I have done; but these are not what I have preached." + +"What have you preached?" asked the other, walking on into the +fast-gathering night, beyond the Post and the Indian lodges, into the +wastes where frost and silence lived. + +Pierre waved his hand towards space. "This," he said suggestively. + +"What's this?" asked the other fretfully. + +"The thing you feel round you here." + +"I feel the cold," was the petulant reply. + +"I feel the immense, the far off," said Pierre slowly. + +The other did not understand as yet. "You've learned big words," he said +disdainfully. + +"No; big things," rejoined Pierre sharply--"a few." + +"Let me hear you preach them," half snarled Sherburne. + +"You will not like to hear them--no." + +"I'm not likely to think about them one way or another," was the +contemptuous reply. + +Pierre's eyes half closed. The young, impetuous half-baked college man. +To set his little knowledge against his own studious vagabondage! At +that instant he determined to play a game and win; to turn this man into +a vagabond also; to see John the Baptist become a Bedouin. He saw the +doubt, the uncertainty, the shattered vanity in the youth's mind, the +missionary's half retreat from his cause. A crisis was at hand. The +youth was fretful with his great theme, instead of being severe upon +himself. For days and days Pierre's presence had acted on Sherburne +silently but forcibly. He had listened to the vagabond's philosophy, and +knew that it was of a deeper--so much deeper--knowledge of life than he +himself possessed, and he knew also that it was terribly true; he was +not wise enough to see that it was only true in part. The influence +had been insidious, delicate, cunning, and he himself was only "a voice +crying in the wilderness," without the simple creed of that voice. He +knew that the Methodist missionary was believed in more, if less liked, +than himself. Pierre would work now with all the latent devilry of his +nature to unseat the man from his saddle. + +"You have missed the great thing, alors, though you have been up here +two years," he said. "You do not feel, you do not know. What good have +you done? Who has got on his knees and changed his life because of you? +Who has told his beads or longed for the Mass because of you? Tell me, +who has ever said, 'You have showed me how to live'? Even the women, +though they cry sometimes when you sing-song the prayers, go on just +the same when the little 'bless-you' is over. Why? Most of them know a +better thing than you tell them. Here is the truth: you are little--eh, +so very little. You never lied--direct; you never stole the waters that +are sweet; you never knew the big dreams that come with wine in the dead +of night; you never swore at your own soul and heard it laugh back at +you; you never put your face in the breast of a woman--do not look so +wild at me!--you never had a child; you never saw the world and yourself +through the doors of real life. You never have said, 'I am tired; I +am sick of all; I have seen all.' You have never felt what came +after--understanding. Chut, your talk is for children--and missionaries. +You are a prophet without a call, you are a leader without a man to +lead, you are less than a child up here. For here the children feel a +peace in their blood when the stars come out, and a joy in their brains +when the dawn comes up and reaches a yellow hand to the Pole, and the +west wind shouts at them. Holy Mother! we in the far north, we feel +things, for all the great souls of the dead are up there at the Pole in +the pleasant land, and we have seen the Scarlet Hunter and the Kimash +Hills. You have seen nothing. You have only heard, and because, like a +child, you have never sinned, you come and preach to us!" + +The night was folding down fast, all the stars were shooting out into +their places, and in the north the white lights of the aurora were +flying to and fro. Pierre had spoken with a slow force and precision, +yet, as he went on, his eyes almost became fixed on those shifting +flames, and a deep look came into them, as he was moved by his own +eloquence. Never in his life had he made so long a speech at once. He +paused, and then said suddenly: "Come, let us run." + +He broke into a long, sliding trot, and Sherburne did the same. With +their arms gathered to their sides they ran for quite two miles without +a word, until the heavy breathing of the clergyman brought Pierre up +suddenly. + +"You do not run well," he said; "you do not run with the whole body. You +know so little. Did you ever think how much such men as Jacques Parfaite +know? The earth they read like a book, the sky like an animal's ways, +and a man's face like--like the writing on the wall." + +"Like the writing on the wall," said Sherburne, musing; for, under the +other's influence, his petulance was gone. He knew that he was not a +part of this life, that he was ignorant of it; of, indeed, all that was +vital in it and in men and women. + +"I think you began this too soon. You should have waited; then you might +have done good. But here we are wiser than you. You have no message--no +real message--to give us; down in your heart you are not even sure of +yourself." + +Sherburne sighed. "I'm of no use," he said. "I'll get out. I'm no good +at all." + +Pierre's eyes glistened. He remembered how, the day before, this youth +had said hot words about his card-playing; had called him--in effect--a +thief; had treated him as an inferior, as became one who was of St. +Augustine's, Canterbury. + +"It is the great thing to be free," Pierre said, "that no man shall look +for this or that of you. Just to do as far as you feel, as far as you +are sure--that is the best. In this you are not sure--no. Hein, is it +not?" + +Sherburne did not answer. Anger, distrust, wretchedness, the spirit of +the alien, loneliness, were alive in him. The magnetism of this deep +penetrating man, possessed of a devil, was on him, and in spite of every +reasonable instinct he turned to him for companionship. + +"It's been a failure," he burst out, "and I'm sick of it--sick of it; +but I can't give it up." + +Pierre said nothing. They had come to what seemed a vast semicircle of +ice and snow, a huge amphitheatre in the plains. It was wonderful: a +great round wall on which the northern lights played, into which the +stars peered. It was open towards the north, and in one side was a +fissure shaped like a Gothic arch. Pierre pointed to it, and they did +not speak till they had passed through it. Like great seats the steppes +of snow ranged round, and in the centre was a kind of plateau of ice, +as it might seem a stage or an altar. To the north there was a great +opening, the lost arc of the circle, through which the mystery of the +Pole swept in and out, or brooded there where no man may question it. +Pierre stood and looked. Time and again he had been here, and had asked +the same question: Who had ever sat on those frozen benches and looked +down at the drama on that stage below? Who played the parts? Was it a +farce or a sacrifice? To him had been given the sorrow of imagination, +and he wondered and wondered. Or did they come still--those strange +people, whoever they were--and watch ghostly gladiators at their fatal +sport? If they came, when was it? Perhaps they were there now unseen. In +spite of himself he shuddered. Who was the keeper of the house? + +Through his mind there ran--pregnant to him for the first tine--a +chanson of the Scarlet Hunter, the Red Patrol, who guarded the sleepers +in the Kimash Hills against the time they should awake and possess the +land once more: the friend of the lost, the lover of the vagabond, and +of all who had no home: + + "Strangers come to the outer walls-- + (Why do the sleepers stir?) + Strangers enter the Judgment House-- + (Why do the sleepers sigh?) + Slow they rise in their judgment seats, + Sieve and measure the naked souls, + Then with a blessing return to sleep-- + (Quiet the Judgment House.) + Lone and sick are the vagrant souls-- + (When shall the world come home?)" + +He reflected upon the words, and a feeling of awe came over him, for he +had been in the White Valley and had seen the Scarlet Hunter. But +there came at once also a sinister desire to play a game for this man's +life-work here. He knew that the other was ready for any wild move; +there was upon him the sense of failure and disgust; he was acted on +by the magic of the night, the terrible delight of the scene, and that +might be turned to advantage. + +He said: "Am I not right? There is something in the world greater than +the creeds and the book of the Mass. To be free and to enjoy, that is +the thing. Never before have you felt what you feel here now. And I will +show you more. I will teach you how to know, I will lead you through all +the north and make you to understand the big things of life. Then, when +you have known, you can return if you will. But now--see: I will tell +you what I will do. Here on this great platform we will play a game of +cards. There is a man whose life I can ruin. If you win I promise to +leave him safe; and to go out of the far north for ever, to go back to +Quebec"--he had a kind of gaming fever in his veins. "If I win, you give +up the Church, leaving behind the prayerbook, the Bible and all, coming +with me to do what I shall tell you, for the passing of twelve moons. +It is a great stake--will you play it? Come"--he leaned forward, looking +into the other's face--"will you play it? They drew lots--those people +in the Bible. We will draw lots, and see, eh?--and see?" + +"I accept the stake," said Sherburne, with a little gasp. + +Without a word they went upon that platform, shaped like an altar, +and Pierre at once drew out a pack of cards, shuffling them with his +mittened hands. Then he knelt down and said, as he laid out the cards +one by one till there were thirty: "Whoever gets the ace of hearts +first, wins--hein?" + +Sherburne nodded and knelt also. The cards lay back upwards in three +rows. For a moment neither stirred. The white, metallic stars saw it, +the small crescent moon beheld it, and the deep wonder of night made it +strange and dreadful. Once or twice Sherburne looked round as though he +felt others present, and once Pierre looked out to the wide portals, +as though he saw some one entering. But there was nothing to the +eye--nothing. Presently Pierre said: "Begin." + +The other drew a card, then Pierre drew one, then the other, then Pierre +again; and so on. How slow the game was! Neither hurried, but both, +kneeling, looked and looked at the card long before drawing and turning +it over. The stake was weighty, and Pierre loved the game more than he +cared about the stake. Sherburne cared nothing about the game, but all +his soul seemed set upon the hazard. There was not a sound out of the +night, nothing stirring but the Spirit of the North. Twenty, twenty-five +cards were drawn, and then Pierre paused. + +"In a minute all will be settled," he said. "Will you go on, or will you +pause?" + +But Sherburne had got the madness of chance in his veins now, and he +said: "Quick, quick, go on!" Pierre drew, but the great card held back. +Sherburne drew, then Pierre again. There were three left. Sherburne's +face was as white as the snow around him. His mouth was open, and a +little white cloud of frosted breath came out. His hand hungered for +the card, drew back, then seized it. A moan broke from him. Then Pierre, +with a little weird laugh, reached out and turned over the ace of +hearts! + +They both stood up. Pierre put the cards in his pocket. + +"You have lost," he said. + +Sherburne threw back his head with a reckless laugh. The laugh seemed to +echo and echo through the amphitheatre, and then from the frozen seats, +the hillocks of ice and snow, there was a long, low sound, as of sorrow, +and a voice came after: + +"Sleep--sleep! Blessed be the just and the keepers of vows." + +Sherburne stood shaking, as though he had seen a host of spirits. His +eyes on the great seats of judgment, he said to Pierre: + +"See, see, how they sit there, grey and cold and awful!" + +But Pierre shook his head. + +"There is nothing," he said, "nothing;" yet he knew that Sherburne was +looking upon the men of judgment of the Kimash Hills, the sleepers. He +looked round, half fearfully, for if here were those great children of +the ages, where was the keeper of the house, the Red Patrol? + +Even as he thought, a figure in scarlet with a noble face and a high +pride of bearing stood before them, not far away. Sherburne clutched his +arm. + +Then the Red Patrol, the Scarlet Hunter spoke: "Why have you sinned your +sins and broken your vows within our house of judgment? Know ye not that +in the new springtime of the world ye shall be outcast, because ye have +called the sleepers to judgment before their time? But I am the hunter +of the lost. Go you," he said to Sherburne, pointing, "where a sick man +lies in a hut in the Shikam Valley. In his soul find thine own again." +Then to Pierre: "For thee, thou shalt know the desert and the storm and +the lonely hills; thou shalt neither seek nor find. Go, and return no +more." + +The two men, Sherburne falteringly, stepped down and moved to the open +plain. They turned at the great entrance and looked back. Where they had +stood there rested on his long bow the Red Patrol. He raised it, and a +flaming arrow flew through the sky towards the south. They followed +its course, and when they looked back a little afterwards, the great +judgment-house was empty, and the whole north was silent as the +sleepers. + +At dawn they came to the hut in the Shikam Valley, and there they found +a trapper dying. He had sinned greatly, and he could not die without +someone to show him how, to tell him what to say to the angel of the +cross-roads. + +Sherburne, kneeling by him, felt his own new soul moved by a holy fire, +and, first praying for himself, he said to the sick man: "For if we +confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to +cleanse us from all unrighteousness." + +Praying for both, his heart grew strong, and he heard the sick man say, +ere he journeyed forth to the crossroads: + +"You have shown me the way. I have peace." + +"Speak for me in the Presence," said Sherburne softly. + +The dying man could not answer, but that moment, as he journeyed forth +on the Far Trail, he held Sherburne's hand. + + + + +THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN + +"Why don't she come back, father?" + +The man shook his head, his hand fumbled with the wolf-skin robe +covering the child, and he made no reply. "She'd come if she knew I was +hurted, wouldn't she?" + +The father nodded, and then turned restlessly toward the door, as though +expecting someone. The look was troubled, and the pipe he held was not +alight, though he made a pretence of smoking. + +"Suppose the wild cat had got me, she'd be sorry when she comes, +wouldn't she?" + +There was no reply yet, save by gesture, the language of primitive man; +but the big body shivered a little, and the uncouth hand felt for a +place in the bed where the lad's knee made a lump under the robe. He +felt the little heap tenderly, but the child winced. + +"S-sh, but that hurts! This wolf-skin's most too much on me, isn't it, +father?" + +The man softly, yet awkwardly too, lifted the robe, folded it back, +and slowly uncovered the knee. The leg was worn away almost to skin and +bone, but the knee itself was swollen with inflammation. He bathed +it with some water, mixed with vinegar and herbs, then drew down the +deer-skin shirt at the child's shoulder, and did the same with it. Both +shoulder and knee bore the marks of teeth--where a huge wild cat had +made havoc--and the body had long red scratches. + +Presently the man shook his head sorrowfully, and covered up the small +disfigured frame again, but this time with a tanned skin of the caribou. +The flames of the huge wood fire dashed the walls and floor with a +velvety red and black, and the large iron kettle, bought of the Company +at Fort Sacrament, puffed out geysers of steam. + +The place was a low but with parchment windows and rough mud-mortar +lumped between the logs. Skins hung along two sides, with bullet-holes +and knife-holes showing: of the great grey wolf, the red puma, the +bronze hill-lion, the beaver, the bear, and the sable; and in one corner +was a huge pile of them. Bare of the usual comforts as the room was, it +had a sort of refinement also, joined to an inexpressible loneliness; +you could scarce have told how or why. + +"Father," said the boy, his face pinched with pain for a moment, "it +hurts so all over, every once in a while." + +His fingers caressed the leg just below the knee. "Father," he suddenly +added, "what does it mean when you hear a bird sing in the middle of +the night?" The woodsman looked down anxiously into the boy's face. "It +hasn't no meaning, Dominique. There ain't such a thing on the Labrador +Heights as a bird singin' in the night. That's only in warm countries +where there's nightingales. So--bien sur!" + +The boy had a wise, dreamy, speculative look. "Well, I guess it was a +nightingale--it didn't sing like any I ever heard." + +The look of nervousness deepened in the woodsman's face. "What did it +sing like, Dominique?" + +"So it made you shiver. You wanted it to go on, and yet you didn't want +it. It was pretty, but you felt as if something was going to snap inside +of you." + +"When did you hear it, my son?" + +"Twice last night--and--and I guess it was Sunday the other time. I +don't know, for there hasn't been no Sunday up here since mother went +away--has there?" + +"Mebbe not." + +The veins were beating like live cords in the man's throat and at his +temples. + +"'Twas just the same as Father Corraine bein' here, when mother had +Sunday, wasn't it?" + +The man made no reply, but a gloom drew down his forehead, and his lips +doubled in as if he endured physical pain. He got to his feet and paced +the floor. For weeks he had listened to the same kind of talk from this +wounded, and, as he thought, dying son, and he was getting less and less +able to bear it. The boy at nine years of age was, in manner of speech, +the merest child, but his thoughts were sometimes large and wise. The +only white child within a compass of three hundred miles or so; the +lonely life of the hills and plains, so austere in winter, so melted to +a sober joy in summer; listening to the talk of his elders at camp-fires +and on the hunting-trail, when, even as an infant almost, he was swung +in a blanket from a tree or was packed in the torch-crane of a canoe; +and, more than all, the care of a good, loving--if passionate--little +mother: all these had made him far wiser than his years. He had been +hours upon hours each day alone with the birds, and squirrels, and wild +animals, and something of the keen scent and instinct of the animal +world had entered into his body and brain, so that he felt what he could +not understand. + +He saw that he had worried his father, and it troubled him. He thought +of something. "Daddy," he said, "let me have it." + +A smile struggled for life in the hunter's face, as he turned to the +wall and took down the skin of a silver fox. He held it on his palm for +a moment, looking at it in an interested, satisfied way, then he brought +it over and put it into the child's hands; and the smile now shaped +itself, as he saw an eager pale face buried in the soft fur. + +"Good! good!" he said involuntarily. + +"Bon! bon!" said the boy's voice from the fur, in the language of his +mother, who added a strain of Indian blood to her French ancestry. + +The two sat there, the man half-kneeling on the low bed, and stroking +the fur very gently. It could scarcely be thought that such pride should +be spent on a little pelt by a mere backwoodsman and his nine-year-old +son. One has seen a woman fingering a splendid necklace, her eyes +fascinated by the bunch of warm, deep jewels--a light not of mere +vanity, or hunger, or avarice in her face--only the love of the +beautiful thing. But this was an animal's skin. Did they feel the animal +underneath it yet, giving it beauty, life, glory? + +The silver-fox skin is the prize of the north, and this one was of the +boy's own harvesting. While his father was away he saw the fox creeping +by the hut. The joy of the hunter seized him, and guided his eye +over the sights of his father's rifle, as he rested the barrel on the +window-sill, and the animal was his! Now his finger ran into the hole +made by the bullet, and he gave a little laugh of modest triumph. +Minutes passed as they studied, felt, and admired the skin, the hunter +proud of his son, the son alive with a primitive passion, which inflicts +suffering to get the beautiful thing. Perhaps the tenderness as well as +the wild passion of the animal gets into the hunter's blood, and tips +his fingers at times with an exquisite kindness--as one has noted in a +lion fondling her young, or in tigers as they sport upon the sands of +the desert. This boy had seen his father shoot a splendid moose, and as +it lay dying, drop down and kiss it in the neck for sheer love of +its handsomeness. Death is no insult. It is the law of the primitive +world--war, and love in war. + +They sat there for a long time, not speaking, each busy in his own +way: the boy full of imaginings, strange, half-heathen, half-angelic +feelings; the man roaming in that savage, romantic, superstitious +atmosphere which belongs to the north, and to the north alone. At last +the boy lay back on the pillow, his finger still in the bullet-hole +of the pelt. His eyes closed, and he seemed about to fall asleep, but +presently looked up and whispered: "I haven't said my prayers, have I?" + +The father shook his head in a sort of rude confusion. + +"I can pray out loud if I want to, can't I?" + +"Of course, Dominique." The man shrank a little. + +"I forget a good many times, but I know one all right, for I said it +when the bird was singing. It isn't one out of the book Father Corraine +sent mother by Pretty Pierre; it's one she taught me out of her own +head. P'r'aps I'd better say it." + +"P'r'aps, if you want to." The voice was husky. The boy began: + +"O bon Jesu, who died to save us from our sins, and to lead us to Thy +country, where there is no cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where no +one is afraid, listen to Thy child.... When the great winds and rains +come down from the hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor the woods +cover us, nor the snow-slide bury us; and do not let the prairie-fires +burn us. Keep wild beasts from killing us in our sleep, and give us good +hearts that we may not kill them in anger." + +His finger twisted involuntarily into the bullet-hole in the pelt, and +he paused a moment. + +"Keep us from getting lost, O gracious Saviour." Again there was a +pause, his eyes opened wide, and he said: + +"Do you think mother's lost, father?" + +A heavy broken breath came from the father, and he replied haltingly: +"Mebbe, mebbe so." + +Dominique's eyes closed again. "I'll make up some," he said slowly. "And +if mother's lost, bring her back again to us, for everything's going +wrong." + +Again he paused, then went on with the prayer as it had been taught him. + +"Teach us to hear Thee whenever Thou callest, and to see Thee when Thou +visitest us, and let the blessed Mary and all the saints speak often to +Thee for us. O Christ, hear us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ have +mercy upon us. Amen." + +Making the sign of the cross, he lay back, and said "I'll go to sleep +now, I guess." + +The man sat for a long time looking at the pale, shining face, at the +blue veins showing painfully dark on the temples and forehead, at the +firm little white hand, which was as brown as a butternut a few weeks +before. The longer he sat, the deeper did his misery sink into his soul. +His wife had gone, he knew not where, his child was wasting to death, +and he had for his sorrows no inner consolation. He had ever had that +touch of mystical imagination inseparable from the far north, yet he had +none of that religious belief which swallowed up natural awe and turned +it to the refining of life, and to the advantage of a man's soul. Now it +was forced in upon him that his child was wiser than himself, wiser +and safer. His life had been spent in the wastes, with rough deeds +and rugged habits, and a youth of hardship, danger, and almost savage +endurance, had given him a half-barbarian temperament, which could +strike an angry blow at one moment and fondle to death at the next. + +When he married sweet Lucette Barbond his religion reached little +farther than a belief in the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills and +those voices that could be heard calling in the night, till their time +of sleep be past, and they should rise and reconquer the north. + +Not even Father Corraine, whose ways were like those of his Master, +could ever bring him to a more definite faith. His wife had at first +striven with him, mourning yet loving. Sometimes the savage in him had +broken out over the little creature, merely because barbaric tyranny +was in him--torture followed by the passionate kiss. But how was she +philosopher enough to understand the cause? + +When she fled from their hut one bitter day, as he roared some wild +words at her, it was because her nerves had all been shaken from +threatened death by wild beasts (of which he did not know), and his +violence drove her mad. She had run out of the house, and on, and on, +and on--and she had never come back. That was weeks ago, and there had +been no word nor sign of her since. The man was now busy with it all, in +a slow, cumbrous way. A nature more to be touched by things seen than by +things told, his mind was being awakened in a massive kind of fashion. +He was viewing this crisis of his life as one sees a human face in +the wide searching light of a great fire. He was restless, but he held +himself still by a strong effort, not wishing to disturb the sleeper. +His eyes seemed to retreat farther and farther back under his shaggy +brows. + +The great logs in the chimney burned brilliantly, and a brass crucifix +over the child's head now and again reflected soft little flashes of +light. This caught the hunter's eye. Presently there grew up in him a +vague kind of hope that, somehow, this symbol would bring him luck--that +was the way he put it to himself. He had felt this--and something +more--when Dominique prayed. Somehow, Dominique's prayer was the only +one he had ever heard that had gone home to him, had opened up the big +sluices of his nature, and let the light of God flood in. No, there was +another: the one Lucette made on the day that they were married, when a +wonderful timid reverence played through his hungry love for her. + +Hours passed. All at once, without any other motion or gesture, the +boy's eyes opened wide with a strange, intense look. + +"Father," he said slowly, and in a kind of dream, "when you hear a sweet +horn blow at night, is it the Scarlet Hunter calling?" + +"P'r'aps. Why, Dominique?" He made up his mind to humour the boy, though +it gave him strange aching forebodings. He had seen grown men and women +with these fancies--and they had died. + +"I heard one blowing just now, and the sounds seemed to wave over my +head. Perhaps he's calling someone that's lost." + +"Mebbe." + +"And I heard a voice singing--it wasn't a bird tonight." + +"There was no voice, Dominique." + +"Yes, yes." There was something fine in the grave, courteous certainty +of the lad. "I waked and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut my +eyes again, and I heard the voice. I remember the tune and the words." + +"What were the words?" In spite of himself the hunter felt awed. + +"I've heard mother sing them, or something most like them: + + "Why does the fire no longer burn? + (I am so lonely.) + Why does the tent-door swing outward? + (I have no home.) + Oh, let me breathe hard in your face! + (I am so lonely.) + Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me? + (I have no home.)" + +The boy paused. + +"Was that all, Dominique?" + +"No, not all." + + "Let us make friends with the stars; + (I am so lonely.) + Give me your hand, I will hold it. + (I have no home.) + Let us go hunting together. + (I am so lonely.) + We will sleep at God's camp to-night. + (I have no home.)" + +Dominique did not sing, but recited the words with a sort of chanting +inflection. + +"What does it mean when you hear a voice like that, father?" + +"I don't know. Who told--your mother--the song?" + +"Oh, I don't know. I suppose she just made them up--she and God.... +There! There it is again? Don't you hear it--don't you hear it, daddy?" + +"No, Dominique, it's only the kettle singing." + +"A kettle isn't a voice. Daddy--" He paused a little, then went on, +hesitatingly--"I saw a white swan fly through the door over your +shoulder, when you came in to-night." + +"No, no, Dominique; it was a flurry of snow blowing over my shoulder." + +"But it looked at me with two shining eyes." + +"That was two stars shining through the door, my son." + +"How could there be snow flying and stars shining too, father?" + +"It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but the stars were shining +above, Dominique." + +The man's voice was anxious and unconvincing, his eyes had a hungry, +hunted look. The legend of the White Swan had to do with the passing of +a human soul. The swan had come in--would it go out alone? He touched +the boy's hand--it was hot with fever; he felt the pulse--it ran high; +he watched the face--it had a glowing light. Something stirred within +him, and passed like a wave to the farthest courses of his being. +Through his misery he had touched the garment of the Master of Souls. As +though a voice said to him there, "Someone hath touched me," he got to +his feet, and, with a sudden blind humility, lit two candles, placed +them on a shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure of the Virgin, as +he had seen his wife do. Then he picked a small handful of fresh spruce +twigs from a branch over the chimney, and laid them beside the candles. +After a short pause he came slowly to the head of the boy's bed. Very +solemnly he touched the foot of the Christ on the cross with the tips +of his fingers, and brought them to his lips with an indescribable +reverence. After a moment, standing with eyes fixed on the face of the +crucified figure, he said, in a shaking voice: + +"Pardon, bon Jesu! Sauvez mon enfant! Ne me laissez pas seul!" + +The boy looked up with eyes again grown unnaturally heavy, and said: + +"Amen!... Bon Jesu!... Encore! Encore, mon pere!" + +The boy slept. The father stood still by the bed for a time, but at last +slowly turned and went toward the fire. + +Outside, two figures were approaching the hut--a man and a woman; yet at +first glance the man might easily have been taken for a woman, because +of the long black robe which he wore, and because his hair fell loose on +his shoulders and his face was clean-shaven. + +"Have patience, my daughter," said the man. "Do not enter till I call +you. But stand close to the door, if you will, and hear all." + +So saying he raised his hand as in a kind of benediction, passed to the +door, and after tapping very softly, opened it, entered, and closed it +behind him-not so quickly, however, but that the woman caught a glimpse +of the father and the boy. In her eyes there was the divine look of +motherhood. + +"Peace be to this house!" said the man gently as he stepped forward from +the door. + +The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on him, as if he had seen a +spirit. + +"M'sieu' le cure!" he said in French, with an accent much poorer than +that of the priest, or even of his own son. He had learned French from +his wife; he himself was English. + +The priest's quick eye had taken in the lighted candles at the little +shrine, even as he saw the painfully changed aspect of the man. + +"The wife and child, Bagot?" he asked, looking round. "Ah, the boy!" he +added, and going toward the bed, continued, presently, in a low voice: +"Dominique is ill?" + +Bagot nodded, and then answered: "A wild-cat and then fever, Father +Corraine." + +The priest felt the boy's pulse softly, then with a close personal look +he spoke hardly above his breath, yet distinctly too: + +"Your wife, Bagot?" + +"She is not here, m'sieu'." The voice was low and gloomy. + +"Where is she, Bagot?" + +"I do not know, m'sieu'." + +"When did you see her last?" + +"Four weeks ago, m'sieu'." + +"That was September, this is October--winter. On the ranches they let +their cattle loose upon the plains in winter, knowing not where they go, +yet looking for them to return in the spring. But a woman--a woman and +a wife--is different.... Bagot, you have been a rough, hard man, and you +have been a stranger to your God, but I thought you loved your wife and +child!" + +The hunter's hands clenched, and a wicked light flashed up into his +eyes; but the calm, benignant gaze of the other cooled the tempest in +his veins. The priest sat down on the couch where the child lay, and +took the fevered hand in his very softly. + +"Stay where you are, Bagot," he said; "just there where you are, and +tell me what your trouble is, and why your wife is not here.... Say all +honestly--by the name of the Christ!" he added, lifting up a large iron +crucifix that hung on his breast. + +Bagot sat down on a bench near the fireplace, the light playing on his +bronzed, powerful face, his eyes shining beneath his heavy brows like +two coals. After a moment he began: + +"I don't know how it started. I'd lost a lot of pelts--stolen they were, +down on the Child o' Sin River. Well, she was hasty and nervous, like +as not--she always was brisker and more sudden than I am. I--I laid my +powder-horn and whisky-flask-up there!" + +He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin, where now his candles +were burning. The priest's grave eyes did not change expression at all, +but looked out wisely, as though he understood everything before it was +told. + +Bagot continued: "I didn't notice it, but she had put some flowers +there. She said something with an edge, her face all snapping angry, +threw the things down, and called me a heathen and a wicked heretic--and +I don't say now but she'd a right to do it. But I let out then, for them +stolen pelts were rasping me on the raw. I said something pretty rough, +and made as if I was goin' to break her in two--just fetched up my +hands, and went like this!--" With a singular simplicity he made a wild +gesture with his hands, and an animal-like snarl came from his throat. +Then he looked at the priest with the honest intensity of a boy. + +"Yes, that is what you did--what was it you said which was 'pretty +rough'?" + +There was a slight hesitation, then came the reply: "I said there was +enough powder spilt on the floor to kill all the priests in heaven." + +A fire suddenly shot up into Father Corraine's face, and his lips +tightened for an instant, but presently he was as before, and he said: + +"How that will face you one day, Bagot! Go on. What else?" + +Sweat began to break out on Bagot's face, and he spoke as though he were +carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, low and brokenly. + +"Then I said, 'And if virgins has it so fine, why didn't you stay one?'" + +"Blasphemer!" said the priest in a stern, reproachful voice, his face +turning a little pale, and he brought the crucifix to his lips. "To the +mother of your child--shame! What more?" + +She threw up her hands to her ears with a wild cry, ran out of the +house, down the hills, and away. I went to the door and watched her as +long as I could see her, and waited for her to come back--but she never +did. + +"I've hunted and hunted, but I can't find her." Then, with a sudden +thought, "Do you know anything of her, m'sieu'?" + +The priest appeared not to hear the question. Turning for a moment +toward the boy who now was in a deep sleep, he looked at him intently. +Presently he spoke. + +"Ever since I married you and Lucette Barbond, you have stood in the way +of her duty, Bagot. How well I remember that first day when you knelt +before me! Was ever so sweet and good a girl--with her golden eyes and +the look of summer in her face, and her heart all pure! Nothing had +spoiled her--you cannot spoil such women--God is in their hearts. But +you, what have you cared? One day you would fondle her, and the next you +were a savage--and she, so gentle, so gentle all the time. Then, for her +religion and the faith of her child--she has fought for it, prayed for +it, suffered for it. You thought you had no need, for you had so much +happiness, which you did not deserve--that was it. But she: with all a +woman suffers, how can she bear life--and man--without God? No, it is +not possible. And you thought you and your few superstitions were enough +for her.--Ah, poor fool! She should worship you! So selfish, so small, +for a man who knows in his heart how great God is.--You did not love +her." + +"By the Heaven above, yes!" said Bagot, half starting to his feet. + +"Ah, 'by the Heaven above,' no! nor the child. For true love is +unselfish and patient, and where it is the stronger, it cares for the +weaker; but it was your wife who was unselfish, patient, and cared for +you. Every time she said an ave she thought of you, and her every +thanks to the good God had you therein. They know you well in heaven, +Bagot--through your wife. Did you ever pray--ever since I married you to +her?" + +"Yes." + +"When?" + +"An hour or so ago." + +Once again the priest's eyes glanced towards the lighted candles. + +Presently he said: "You asked me if I had heard anything of your wife. +Listen, and be patient while you listen.... Three weeks ago I was +camping on the Sundust Plains, over against the Young Sky River. In the +morning, as I was lighting a fire outside my tent, my young Cree Indian +with me, I saw coming over the crest of a land-wave, from the very lips +of the sunrise, as it were, a band of Indians. I could not quite make +them out. I hoisted my little flag on the tent, and they hurried on to +me. I did not know the tribe--they had come from near Hudson's Bay. They +spoke Chinook, and I could understand them. Well, as they came near I +saw that they had a woman with them." + +Bagot leaned forward, his body strained, every muscle tense. "A woman?" +he said, as if breathing gave him sorrow--"my wife?" + +"Your wife." + +"Quick! Quick! Go on--oh, go on, m'sieu'--good father." + +"She fell at my feet, begging me to save her.... I waved her off." + +The sweat dropped from Bagot's forehead, a low growl broke from him, and +he made such a motion as a lion might make at its prey. + +"You wouldn't--wouldn't save her--you coward!" He ground the words out. + +The priest raised his palm against the other's violence. "Hush!... +She drew away, saying that God and man had deserted her.... We had +breakfast, the chief and I. Afterwards, when the chief had eaten much +and was in good humour, I asked him where he had got the woman. He said +that he had found her on the plains she had lost her way. I told him +then that I wanted to buy her. He said to me, 'What does a priest want +of a woman?' I said that I wished to give her back to her husband. He +said that he had found her, and she was his, and that he would marry her +when they reached the great camp of the tribe. I was patient. It would +not do to make him angry. I wrote down on a piece of bark the things +that I would give him for her: an order on the Company at Fort o' Sin +for shot, blankets, and beads. He said no." + +The priest paused. Bagot's face was all swimming with sweat, his body +was rigid, but the veins of his neck knotted and twisted. + +"For the love of God, go on!" he said hoarsely. "Yes, 'for the love of +God.' I have no money, I am poor, but the Company will always honour my +orders, for I pay sometimes, by the help of Christ. Bien, I added some +things to the list: a saddle, a rifle, and some flannel. But no, he +would not. Once more I put many things down. It was a big bill--it would +keep me poor for five years.--To save your wife, John Bagot, you who +drove her from your door, blaspheming, and railing at such as I.... I +offered the things, and told him that was all that I could give. After +a little he shook his head, and said that he must have the woman for his +wife. I did not know what to add. I said--'She is white, and the white +people will never rest till they have killed you all, if you do this +thing. The Company will track you down.' Then he said, 'The whites must +catch me and fight me before they kill me.'... What was there to do?" + +Bagot came near to the priest, bending over him savagely. + +"You let her stay with them--you with hands like a man!" + +"Hush!" was the calm, reproving answer. "I was one man, they were +twenty." + +"Where was your God to help you, then?" + +"Her God and mine was with me." + +Bagot's eyes blazed. "Why didn't you offer rum--rum? They'd have done it +for that--one--five--ten kegs of rum!" + +He swayed to and fro in his excitement, yet their voices hardly rose +above a hoarse whisper all the time. "You forget," answered the priest, +"that it is against the law, and that as a priest of my order, I am +vowed to give no rum to an Indian." + +"A vow? A vow? Name of God! what is a vow beside a woman--my wife?" + +His misery and his rage were pitiful to see. + +"Perjure my soul? Offer rum? Break my vow in the face of the enemies of +God's Church? What have you done for me that I should do this for you, +John Bagot?" + +"Coward!" was the man's despairing cry, with a sudden threatening +movement. "Christ Himself would have broke a vow to save her." + +The grave, kind eyes of the priest met the other's fierce gaze, and +quieted the wild storm that was about to break. + +"Who am I that I should teach my Master?" he said solemnly. "What would +you give Christ, Bagot, if He had saved her to you?" + +The man shook with grief, and tears rushed from his eyes, so suddenly +and fully had a new emotion passed through him. + +"Give--give?" he cried; "I would give twenty years of my life!" + +The figure of the priest stretched up with a gentle grandeur. Holding +out the iron crucifix, he said: "On your knees and swear it, John +Bagot." + +There was something inspiring, commanding, in the voice and manner, and +Bagot, with a new hope rushing through his veins, knelt and repeated his +words. + +The priest turned to the door, and called, "Madame Lucette!" + +The boy, hearing, waked, and sat up in bed suddenly. "Mother! mother!" +he cried, as the door flew open. The mother came to her husband's arms, +laughing and weeping, and an instant afterwards was pouring out her love +and anxiety over her child. + +Father Corraine now faced the man, and with a soft exaltation of voice +and manner, said: + +"John Bagot, in the name of Christ, I demand twenty years of your +life--of love and obedience of God. I broke my vow, I perjured my soul, +I bought your wife with ten kegs of rum!" + +The tall hunter dropped again to his knees, and caught the priest's hand +to kiss it. + +"No, no--this!" the priest said, and laid his iron crucifix against the +other's lips. + +Dominique's voice came clearly through the room: "Mother, I saw the +white swan fly away through the door when you came in." + +"My dear, my dear," she said, "there was no white swan." But she clasped +the boy to her breast protectingly, and whispered an ave. + +"Peace be to this house," said the voice of the priest. And there was +peace: for the child lived, and the man has loved, and has kept his vow, +even unto this day. + +For the visions of the boy, who can know the divers ways in which God +speaks to the children of men? + + + + +AT BAMBER'S BOOM + +His trouble came upon him when he was old. To the hour of its coming +he had been of shrewd and humourous disposition. He had married late in +life, and his wife had died, leaving him one child--a girl. She grew to +womanhood, bringing him daily joy. She was beloved in the settlement; +and there was no one at Bamber's Boom, in the valley of the Madawaska, +but was startled and sorry when it turned out that Dugard, the +river-boss, was married. He floated away down the river, with his rafts +and drives of logs, leaving the girl sick and shamed. They knew she was +sick at heart, because she grew pale and silent; they did not know for +some months how shamed she was. Then it was that Mrs. Lauder, the sister +of the Roman Catholic missionary, Father Halen, being a woman of notable +character and kindness, visited her and begged her to tell all. + +Though the girl--Nora--was a Protestant, Mrs. Lauder did this: but it +brought sore grief to her. At first she could hardly bear to look at +the girl's face, it was so hopeless, so numb to the world: it had the +indifference of despair. Rumour now became hateful fact. When the old +man was told, he gave one great cry, then sat down, his hands pressed +hard between his knees, his body trembling, his eyes staring before him. + +It was Father Halen who told him. He did it as man to man, and not as +a priest, having travelled fifty miles for the purpose. "George Magor," +said he, "it's bad, I know, but bear it--with the help of God. And be +kind to the girl." + +The old man answered nothing. "My friend," the priest continued, "I hope +you'll forgive me for telling you. I thought 'twould be better from me, +than to have it thrown at you in the settlement. We've been friends +one way and another, and my heart aches for you, and my prayers go with +you." + +The old man raised his sunken eyes, all their keen humour gone, and +spoke as though each word were dug from his heart. "Say no more, Father +Halen." Then he reached out, caught the priest's hand in his gnarled +fingers, and wrung it. + +The father never spoke a harsh word to the girl. Otherwise he seemed to +harden into stone. When the Protestant missionary came, he would not see +him. The child was born before the river-drivers came along again the +next year with their rafts and logs. There was a feeling abroad that it +would be ill for Dugard if he chanced to camp at Bamber's Boom. The +look of the old man's face was ominous, and he was known to have an iron +will. + +Dugard was a handsome man, half French, half Scotch, swarthy and +admirably made. He was proud of his strength, and showily fearless in +danger. For there were dangerous hours to the river life: when, +for instance, a mass of logs became jammed at a rapids, and must be +loosened; or a crib struck into the wrong channel, or, failing to enter +a slide straight, came at a nasty angle to it, its timbers wrenched and +tore apart, and its crew, with their great oars, were plumped into the +busy current. He had been known to stand singly in some perilous spot +when one log, the key to the jam, must be shifted to set free the great +tumbled pile. He did everything with a dash. The handspike was waved +and thrust into the best leverage, the long robust cry, "O-hee-hee-hoi!" +rolled over the waters, there was a devil's jumble of logs, and +he played a desperate game with them, tossing here, leaping there, +balancing elsewhere, till, reaching the smooth rush of logs in the +current, he ran across them to the shore as they spun beneath his feet. + +His gang of river-drivers, with their big drives of logs, came +sweeping down one beautiful day of early summer, red-shifted, shouting, +good-tempered. It was about this time that Pierre came to know Magor. + +It was the old man's duty to keep the booms of several great lumbering +companies, and to watch the logs when the river-drivers were engaged +elsewhere. Occasionally he took a place with the men, helping to make +cribs and rafts. Dugard worked for one lumber company, Magor for others. +Many in the settlement showed Dugard how much he was despised. Some +warned him that Magor had said he would break him into pieces; it seemed +possible that Dugard might have a bad hour with the people of Bamber's +Boom. Dugard, though he swelled and strutted, showed by a furtive eye +and a sinister watchfulness that he felt himself in an atmosphere of +danger. But he spoke of his wickedness lightly as, "A slip--a little +accident, mon ami." + +Pierre said to him one day: "Bien, Dugard, you are a bold man to come +here again. Or is it that you think old men are cowards?" + +Dugard, blustering, laid his hand suddenly upon his case-knife. + +Pierre laughed softly, contemptuously, came over, and throwing out his +perfectly formed but not robust chest in the fashion of Dugard, added: +"Ho, ho, monsieur the butcher, take your time at that. There is too much +blood in your carcass. You have quarrels plenty on your hands without +this. Come, don't be a fool and a scoundrel too." + +Dugard grinned uneasily, and tried to turn the thing off as a joke, and +Pierre, who laughed still a little more, said: "It would be amusing to +see old Magor and Dugard fight. It would be--so equal." There was a keen +edge to Pierre's tones, but Dugard dared not resent it. + +One day Magor and Dugard must meet. The square-timber of the two +companies had got tangled at a certain point, and gangs from both must +set them loose. They were camped some distance from each other. There +was rivalry between them, and it was hinted that if any trouble came +from the meeting of Magor and Dugard the gangs would pay off old scores +with each other. Pierre wished to prevent this. It seemed to him that +the two men should stand alone in the affair. He said as much here and +there to members of both camps, for he was free of both: a tribute to +his genius at poker. + +The girl, Nora, was apprehensive--for her father; she hated the other +man now. Pierre was courteous to her, scrupulous in word and look, and +fond of her child. He had always shown a gentleness to children, which +seemed little compatible with his character; but for this young outlaw +in the world he had something more. He even laboured carefully to turn +the girl's father in its favour; but as yet to little purpose. He was +thought ful of the girl too. He only went to the house when he knew +her father was present, or when she was away. Once while he was there, +Father Halen and his sister, Mrs. Lauder, came. They found Pierre with +the child, rocking the cradle, and humming as he did so an old song of +the coureurs de bois: + + "Out of the hills comes a little white deer, + Poor little vaurien, o, ci, ci! + Come to my home, to my home down here, + Sister and brother and child o' me + Poor little, poor little vaurien!" + +Pierre was alone, save for the old woman who had cared for the home +since Nora's trouble came. The priest was anxious lest any harm should +come from Dugard's presence at Bamber's Boom. He knew Pierre's doubtful +reputation, but still he knew he could speak freely and would be +answered honestly. "What will happen?" he abruptly asked. + +"What neither you nor I should try to prevent, m'sieu'," was Pierre's +reply. + +"Magor will do the man injury?" + +"What would you have? Put the matter on your own hearthstone, eh?... +Pardon, if I say these things bluntly." Pierre still lightly rocked the +cradle with one foot. + +"But vengeance is in God's hands." + +"M'sieu'," said the half-breed, "vengeance also is man's, else why did +we ten men from Fort Cypress track down the Indians who murdered your +brother, the good priest, and kill them one by one?" + +Father Halen caught his sister as she swayed, and helped her to a chair, +then turned a sad face on Pierre. "Were you--were you one of that ten?" +he asked, overcome; and he held out his hand. + +The two river-driving camps joined at Mud Cat Point, where was the crush +of great timber. The two men did not at first come face to face, but it +was noticed by Pierre, who smoked on the bank while the others worked, +that the old man watched his enemy closely. The work of undoing the +great twist of logs was exciting, and they fell on each other with a +great sound as they were pried off, and went sliding, grinding, into +the water. At one spot they were piled together, massive and high. These +were left to the last. + +It was here that the two met. Old Magor's face was quiet, if a little +haggard; and his eyes looked out from under his shaggy brows piercingly. +Dugard's manner was swaggering, and he swore horribly at his gang. +Presently he stood at a point alone, working at an obstinate log. He was +at the foot of an incline of timber, and he was not aware that Magor had +suddenly appeared at the top of that incline. He heard his name called +out sharply. Swinging round, he saw Magor thrusting a handspike under +a huge timber, hanging at the top of the incline. He was standing in a +hollow, a kind of trench. He was shaken with fear, for he saw the old +man's design. He gave a cry and made as if to jump out of the way, but +with a laugh Magor threw his whole weight on the handspike, the great +timber slid swiftly down and crushed Dugard from his thighs to his feet, +breaking his legs terribly. The old man called down at him: "A slip--a +little accident, mon ami!" Then, shouldering his handspike, he made his +way through the silent gangs to the shore, and so on homewards. + +Magor had done what he wished. Dugard would be a cripple for life; his +beauty was all spoiled and broken: there was much to do to save his +life. II + +Nora also about this time took to her bed with fever. Again and again +Pierre rode thirty miles and back to get ice for her head. All were kind +to her now. The vengeance upon Dugard seemed to have wiped out much of +her shame in the eyes of Bamber's Boom. Such is the way of the world. +He that has the last blow is in the eye of advantage. When Nora began to +recover, the child fell ill also. In the sickness of the child the old +man had a great temptation--far greater than that concerning Dugard. As +the mother grew better the child became much worse. One night the doctor +came, driving over from another settlement, and said that if the child +got sleep till morning it would probably live, for the crisis had come. +He left an opiate to procure the sleep, the same that had been given +to the mother. If it did not sleep, it would die. Pierre was present at +this time. + +All through the child's illness the old man's mind had been tossed to +and fro. If the child died, the living stigma would be gone; there would +be no reminder of his daughter's shame in the eyes of the world. They +could go away from Bamber's Boom, and begin life again somewhere. But, +then, there was the child itself which had crept into his heart,--he +knew not how, and would not be driven out. He had never, till it +was taken ill, even touched it, nor spoken to it. To destroy its +life!--Well, would it not be better for the child to go out of all +possible shame, into peace, the peace of the grave? + +This night he sat down beside the cradle, holding the bottle of medicine +and a spoon in his hand. The hot, painful face of the child fascinated +him. He looked from it to the bottle, and back, then again to the +bottle. He started, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. For though +the doctor had told him in words the proper dose, he had by mistake +written on the label the same dose as for the mother! Here was the +responsibility shifted in any case. More than once the old man uncorked +the bottle, and once he dropped out the opiate in the spoon steadily; +but the child opened its suffering eyes at him, its little wasted hand +wandered over the coverlet, and he could not do it just then. But +again the passion for its destruction came on him, because he heard his +daughter moaning in the other room. He said to himself that she would be +happier when it was gone. But as he stooped over the cradle, no longer +hesitating, the door softly opened, and Pierre entered. The old man +shuddered, and drew back from the cradle. Pierre saw the look of guilt +in the old man's face, and his instinct told him what was happening. He +took the bottle from the trembling hand, and looked at the label. + +"What is the proper dose?" he asked, seeing that a mistake had been made +by the doctor. + +In a hoarse whisper Magor told him. "It may be too late," Pierre added. +He knelt down, with light fingers opened the child's mouth, and poured +the medicine in slowly. The old man stood for a time rigid, looking +at them both. Then he came round to the other side of the cradle, and +seated himself beside it, his eyes fixed on the child's face. For a long +time they sat there. At last the old man said: "Will he die, Pierre?" + +"I am afraid so," answered Pierre painfully. "But we shall see." Then +early teaching came to him, never to be entirely obliterated, and he +added: "Has the child been baptised?" + +The old man shook his head. "'Will you do it?" asked Pierre +hesitatingly. + +"I can't--I can't," was the reply. + +Pierre smiled a little ironically, as if at himself, got some water in a +cup, came over, and said: "Remember, I'm a Papist!" + +A motion of the hand answered him. + +He dipped his fingers in the water, and dropped it ever so lightly on +the child's forehead. + +"George Magor,"--it was the old man's name,--"I baptise thee in the name +of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." Then he +drew the sign of the cross on the infant's forehead. + +Sitting down, he watched beside the child. After a little he heard a +long choking sigh. Looking up, he saw tears slowly dropping from Magor's +eyes. + +And to this day the child and the mother of the child are dear to the +old man's heart. + + + + +THE BRIDGE HOUSE + +It stood on a wide wall between two small bridges. These were approaches +to the big covered bridge spanning the main channel of the Madawaska +River, and when swelled by the spring thaws and rains, the two flanking +channels divided at the foundations of the house, and rustled away +through the narrow paths of the small bridges to the rapids. You could +stand at any window in the House and watch the ugly, rushing current, +gorged with logs, come battering at the wall, jostle between the piers, +and race on to the rocks and the dam and the slide beyond. You stepped +from the front door upon the wall, which was a road between the bridges, +and from the back door into the river itself. + +The House had once been a tavern. It looked a wayfarer, like its patrons +the river-drivers, with whom it was most popular. You felt that it had +no part in the career of the village on either side, but was like a rock +in a channel, at which a swimmer caught or a vagrant fish loitered. + +Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in the springtime or early +summer, throngs of river-drivers and their bosses sauntered at its +doors, or hung over the railing of the wall, as they talked and smoked. + +The glory of the Bridge House suddenly declined. That was because +Finley, the owner, a rich man, came to hate the place--his brother's +blood stained the barroom floor. He would have destroyed the house but +that John Rupert, the beggared gentleman came to him, and wished to rent +it for a dwelling. + +Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably poor for many years, but he +had a breeding and a manner superior to anyone at Bamber's Boom. He was +too old for a labourer, he had no art or craftsmanship; his little +money was gone in foolish speculations, and he was dependent on his +granddaughter's slight earnings from music teaching and needlework. +But he rented an acre of ground from Finley, and grew vegetables; he +gathered driftwood from the river for his winter fire, and made up the +accounts of the storekeeper occasionally. Yet it was merely keeping off +starvation. He was not popular. He had no tongue for the meaningless +village talk. People held him in a kind of awe, and yet they felt a mean +satisfaction when they saw him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on +the shore to be dragged away--the last resort of the poor, for which +they blush. + +When Mr. Rupert asked for the House, Finley knew the chances were he +would not get the rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old man, he +gave it to him at a low rate. He closed up the bar-room, however, and it +was never opened afterwards. + +So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his granddaughter, came to live +there. Judith was a blithe, lissome creature, who had never known +comfort or riches: they were taken from her grandfather before she was +born, and her father and mother both died when she was a little child. +But she had been taught by her grandmother, when she lived, and by her +grandfather, and she had felt the graces of refined life. Withal, she +had a singular sympathy for the rude, strong life of the river. She was +glad when they came to live at the Bridge House, and shamed too: glad +because they could live apart from the other villagers; shamed because +it exposed her to the curiosity of those who visited the House, thinking +it was still a tavern. But that was only for a time. + +One night Jules Brydon, the young river-boss, camped with his men at +Bamber's Boom. He was of parents Scotch and French, and the amalgamation +of races in him made a striking product. He was cool and indomitable, +yet hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch him at the head of his +men, breaking up a jam of logs, and it was a delight to hear him of an +evening as he sang: + + "Have you heard the cry of the Long Lachine, + When happy is the sun in the morning? + The rapids long and the banks of green, + As we ride away in the morning, + On the froth of the Long Lachine?" + +One day, soon after they came, the dams and booms were opened above, +and forests of logs came riding down to Bamber's Boom. The current was +strong, and the logs came on swiftly. As Brydon's gang worked, they saw +a man out upon a small raft of driftwood, which had been suddenly caught +in the drive of logs, and was carried out towards the middle channel. +The river-drivers laughed, for they failed to see that the man was old, +and that he could not run across the rolling logs to the shore. The old +man, evidently hopeless, laid down his pike-pole, folded his hands, and +drifted with the logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They began to +understand. + +Brydon saw a woman standing at a window of the House waving her arms, +and there floated up the river the words, "Father! father!" He caught +up a pikepole, and ran over that spinning floor of logs to the raft. The +old man's face was white, but there was no fear in his eyes. + +"I cannot run the logs," he said at once; "I never did; I am too old, +and I slip. It's no use. It is my granddaughter at that window. Tell her +that I'll think of her to the last.... Good-bye!" + +Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man's voice was husky; he could not +cry out, but he waved his hand to the girl. + +"Oh, save him!" came from her faintly. + +Brydon's eyes were now on the covered bridge. Their raft was in the +channel, coming straight between two piers. He measured his chances. He +knew if he slipped, doing what he intended, that both might be drowned, +and certainly Mr. Rupert; for the logs were close, and to drop among +them was a bad business. If they once closed over there was an end of +everything. + +"Keep quite still," he said, "and when I throw you catch." + +He took the slight figure in his arms, sprang out upon the slippery +logs, and ran. A cheer went up from the men on the shore, and the people +who were gathering on the bridges, too late to be of service. Besides, +the bridge was closed, and there was only a small opening at the piers. +For one of these piers Brydon was making. He ran hard. Once he slipped +and nearly fell, but recovered. Then a floating tree suddenly lunged up +and struck him, so that he dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, and +strained for the pier. He was within a few feet of it as they came to +the bridge. The people gave a cry of fear, for they saw that there was +no chance of both making it; because, too, at the critical moment a +space of clear water showed near the pier. But Brydon raised John +Rupert up, balanced himself, and tossed him at the pier, where two +river-drivers stood stretching out their arms. An instant afterwards +the old man was with his granddaughter. But Brydon slipped and fell; the +roots of a tree bore him down, and he was gone beneath the logs! + +There was a cry of horror from the watchers, then all was still. But +below the bridge they saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and then +another arm crowding them apart. Now a head and shoulders appeared. +Luckily the piece of timber which Brydon grasped was square, and did +not roll. In a moment he was standing on it. There was a wild shout of +encouragement. He turned his battered, blood-stained face to the bridge +for an instant, and, with a wave of the hand and a sharp look towards +the rapids below, once more sprang out. It was a brave sight, for the +logs were in a narrower channel and more riotous. He rubbed the blood +out of his eyes that he might see his way. The rolling forest gave him +no quarter, but he came on, rocking with weakness, to within a few rods +of the shore. Then a half-dozen of his men ran out on the logs,--they +were packed closely here,--caught him up, and brought him to dry ground. + +They took him to the Bridge House. He was hurt more than he or they +thought. The old man and the girl met them at the door. Judith gave a +little cry when she saw the blood and Brydon's bruised face. He lifted +his head as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their looks meeting, +he took his hat off. Her face flushed; she dropped her eyes. Her +grandfather seized Brydon's big hand, and said some trembling words of +thanks. The girl stepped inside, made a bed for him upon the sofa, and +got him something to drink. She was very cool; she immediately asked +Pierre to go for the young doctor who had lately come to the place, and +made ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon's blood-stained face +and hands, and then gave him some brandy. His comrades standing round +watched her admiringly, she was so deft and delicate. Brydon, as if to +be nursed and cared for was not manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly +to a sitting posture, saying, "Pshaw! I'm all right!" But he turned sick +immediately, and Judith's arms caught his head and shoulders as he +fell back. His face turned, and was pillowed on her bosom. At this +she blushed, but a look of singular dignity came into her face. Those +standing by were struck with a kind of awe; they were used mostly to the +daughters of habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sensitive face spoke +a wonderful language: a divine gratitude and thankfulness; and her eyes +had a clear moisture which did not dim them. The situation was trying +to the river-drivers--it was too refined; and they breathed more freely +when they got outside and left the girl, her grandfather, Pierre, and +the young doctor alone with the injured man. + +That was how the thing began. Pierre saw the conclusion of events from +the start. The young doctor did not. From the hour when he bound up +Brydon's head, Judith's fingers aiding him, he felt a spring in his +blood new to him. When he came to know exactly what it meant, and acted, +it was too late. He was much surprised that his advances were gently +repulsed. He pressed them hard: that was a mistake. He had an idea, not +uncommon in such cases, that he was conferring an honour. But he was +very young. A gold medal in anatomy is likely to turn a lad's head at +the start. He falls into the error that the ability to demonstrate the +medulla oblongata should likewise suffice to convince the heart of a +maid. Pierre enjoyed the situation; he knew life all round; he had boxed +the compass of experience. + +He believed in Judith. The old man interested him: he was a wreck out of +an unfamiliar life. + +"Well, you see," Pierre said to Brydon one day, as they sat on the high +cross-beams of the little bridge, "you can't kill it in a man--what he +was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood over there. Broken down, +eh? Yes, but then there is something--a manner, an eye. He piles the +wood like champagne bottles. On the raft, you remember, he took off his +hat to death. That's different altogether from us." + +He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and saw a troubled look. + +"Yes," Brydon said, "he is different; and so is she." + +"She is a lady," Pierre said, with slow emphasis. "She couldn't hide it +if she tried. She plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. Made +for this?"--he waved his hand towards the Bridge House. "No, no! made +for--" + +He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swift +current. + +Brydon frowned, then said: "Well, made for what, Pierre?" + +Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on the +hillside. "Made for homes like that, not this," he said, and he nodded +first towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House. (The cottage +belonged to the young doctor.) A growl like an animal's came from +Brydon, and he clinched the other's shoulder. Pierre glanced at the +hand, then at Brydon's face, and said sharply: "Take it away." + +The hand dropped; but Brydon's face was hot, and his eyes were hard. + +Pierre continued: "But then women are strange. What you expect they will +not--no. Riches?--it is nothing; houses like that on the hill, nothing. +They have whims. The hut is as good as the house, with the kitchen in +the open where the river welts and washes, and a man--the great man of +the world to them--to play the little game of life with.... Pshaw! you +are idle: move; you are thick in the head: think hard; you like the +girl: speak." + +As he said this, there showed beneath them the front timbers of a small +crib of logs with a crew of two men, making for the rapids and the slide +below. Here was an adventure, for running the rapids with so slight a +craft and small a crew was smart work. Pierre, measuring the distance, +and with a "Look out, below!" swiftly let himself down by his arms as +far as he could, and then dropped to the timbers, as lightly as if it +were a matter of two feet instead of twelve. He waved a hand to Brydon, +and the crib shot on. Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran +into the teeth of the rapids, the long oars of the three men rising and +falling to the monotonous cry. The sun set out the men and the craft +against the tall dark walls of the river in strong relief, and Brydon +was carried away from what Pierre had been saying. He had a solid +pleasure in watching, and he sat up with a call of delight when he saw +the crib drive at the slide. Just glancing the edge, she shot through +safely. His face blazed. + +"A pretty sight!" said a voice behind him. + +Without a word he swung round, and dropped, more heavily than Pierre, +beside Judith. + +"It gets into our bones," he said. "Of course, though it ain't the same +to you," he added, looking down at her over his shoulder. "You don't +care for things so rough, mebbe?" + +"I love the river," she said quietly. + +"We're a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We have to be. It's a rowdy +business." + +"I never noticed that," she replied, gravely smiling. "When I was small +I used to go to the river-drivers' camps with my brother, and they were +always kind to us. They used to sing and play the fiddle, and joke; but +I didn't think then that they were rowdy, and I don't now. They were +never rough with us." + +"No one'd ever be rough with you," was the reply. "Oh yes," she said +suddenly, and turned her head away. She was thinking of what the young +doctor had said to her that morning; how like a foolish boy he had +acted: upbraiding her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things, as +young egoists always do. In years she was younger than he, but in wisdom +much older: in all things more wise and just. He had not struck her, +but with his reckless tongue he had cut her to the heart. "Oh yes," she +repeated, and her eyes ran up to his face and over his great stalwart +body; and then she leaned over the railing and looked into the water. + +"I'd break the man into pieces that was rough with you," he said between +his teeth. + +"Would you?" she asked in a whisper. Then, not giving him a chance to +reply, "We are very poor, you know, and some people are rough with the +poor--and proud. I remember," she went on, simply, dreamily, and as if +talking to herself, "the day when we first came to the Bridge House. +I sat down on a box and looked at the furniture--it was so little--and +cried. Coming here seemed the last of what grandfather used to be. I +couldn't help it. He sat down too, and didn't say anything. He was very +pale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he looked at me. Then I got angry +with myself, and sprang up and went to work--and we get along pretty +well." + +She paused and sighed; then, after a minute: "I love the river. I don't +believe I could be happy away from it. I should like to live on it, and +die on it, and be buried in it." + +His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked so frail and dainty that +his voice, to himself, sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along the +railing to hers, and covered it tenderly--for so big a hand. She drew +her fingers away, but not very quickly. "Don't!" she said, "and--and +someone is coming!" + +There were footsteps behind them. It was her grandfather, carrying +a board fished from the river. He grasped the situation, and stood +speechless with wonder. He had never thought of this. He was a +gentleman, in spite of all, and this man was a common river-boss. +Presently he drew himself up with an air. The heavy board was still in +his arms. Brydon came over and took the board, looking him squarely in +the eyes. + +"Mr. Rupert," he said, "I want to ask something." The old man nodded. + +"I helped you out of a bad scrape on the river?" Again the old man +nodded. + +"Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that I'm going to ask you to draw +no more driftwood from the Madawaska--not a stick, now or ever." + +"It is the only way we can keep from freezing in winter." Mr. Rupert +scarcely knew what he said. Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away, +then answered: "I'll keep you from freezing, if you'll let me, you--and +Judith." + +"Oh, please let us go into the house," Judith said hastily. + +She saw the young doctor driving towards them out of the covered bridge! + +When Brydon went to join his men far down the river he left a wife +behind him at the Bridge House, where she and her grandfather were to +stay until the next summer. Then there would be a journey from Bamber's +Boom to a new home. + +In the late autumn he came, before he went away to the shanties in the +backwoods, and again in the winter just before the babe was born. Then +he went far up the river to Rice Lake and beyond, to bring down the +drives of logs for his Company. June came, and then there was a sudden +sorrow at the Bridge House. How great it was, Pierre's words as he stood +at the door one evening will testify. He said to the young doctor: "Save +the child, and you shall have back the I O U on your house." Which +was also evidence that the young doctor had fallen into the habit of +gambling. + +The young doctor looked hard at him. He had a selfish nature. "You can +only do what you can do," he said. + +Pierre's eyes were sinister. "If you do not save it, one would guess +why." + +The other started, flushed, was silent, and then said: "You think I'm a +coward. We shall see. There is a way, but it may fail." + +And though he sucked the diphtheria poison from the child's throat, it +died the next night. + +Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company had won was handed back with +such good advice as only a worldwise adventurer can give. + +Of the child's death its father did not know. They were not certain +where he was. But when the mother took to her bed again, the young +doctor said it was best that Brydon should come. Pierre had time and +inclination to go for him. But before he went he was taken to Judith's +bedside. Pierre had seen life and death in many forms, but never +anything quite like this: a delicate creature floating away upon a +summer current travelling in those valleys which are neither of this +life nor of that; but where you hear the echoes of both, and are visited +by solicitous spirits. There was no pain in her face--she heard a +little, familiar voice from high and pleasant hills, and she knew, so +wise are the dying, that her husband was travelling after her, and that +they would be all together soon. But she did not speak of that. For the +knowledge born of such a time is locked up in the soul. + +Pierre was awe-stricken. Unconsciously he crossed himself. + +"Tell him to come quickly," she said, "if you find him,"--her fingers +played with the coverlet,--"for I wish to comfort him.... Someone said +that you were bad, Pierre. I do not believe it. You were sorry when my +baby went away. I am--going away--too. But do not tell him that. Tell +him I cannot walk about. I want him to carry me--to carry me. Will you?" +Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping along the coverlet to him; but +it was only instinct that guided him, for he could not see. He started +on his journey with his hat pulled down over his eyes. + +One evening when the river was very high and it was said that Brydon's +drives of logs would soon be down, a strange thing happened at the +Bridge House. + +The young doctor had gone, whispering to Mr. Rupert that he would come +back later. He went out on tiptoe, as from the presence of an angel. His +selfishness had dropped away from him. The evening wore on, and in the +little back room a woman's voice said: + +"Is it morning yet, father?" + +"It is still day. The sun has not set, my child." + +"I thought it had gone, it seemed so dark." + +"You have been asleep, Judith. You have come out of the dark." + +"No, I have come out into the darkness--into the world." + +"You will see better when you are quite awake." + +"I wish I could see the river, father. Will you go and look?" + +Then there was a silence. "Well?" she asked. + +"It is beautiful," he said, "and the sun is still bright." + +"You see as far as Indian Island?" + +"I can see the white comb of the reef beyond it, my dear." + +"And no one--is coming?" + +"There are men making for the shore, and the fires are burning, but no +one is--coming this way.... He would come by the road, perhaps." + +"Oh no, by the river. Pierre has not found him. Can you see the Eddy?" + +"Yes. It is all quiet there; nothing but the logs tossing round it." + +"We used to sit there--he and I--by the big cedar tree. Everything was +so cool and sweet. There was only the sound of the force-pump and the +swallowing of the Eddy. They say that a woman was drowned there, and +that you can see her face in the water, if you happen there at sunrise, +weeping and smiling also: a picture in the water.... Do you think it +true, father?" + +"Life is so strange, and who knows what is not life, my child?" + +"When baby was dying I held it over the water beneath that window, where +the sunshine falls in the evening; and it looked down once before its +spirit passed like a breath over my face. Maybe, its look will stay, for +him to see when he comes. It was just below where you stand.... Father, +can you see its face?" "No, Judith; nothing but the water and the +sunshine." + +"Dear, carry me to the window." + +When this was done she suddenly leaned forward with shining eyes and +anxious fingers. "My baby! My baby!" she said. + +She looked up the river, but her eyes were fading, she could not see +far. "It is all a grey light," she said, "I cannot see well." Yet she +smiled. "Lay me down again, father," she whispered. + +After a little she sank into a slumber. All at once she started up. "The +river, the beautiful river!" she cried out gently. Then, at the last, +"Oh, my dear, my dear!" + +And so she came out of the valley into the high hills. Later he was left +alone with his dead. The young doctor and others had come and gone. He +would watch till morning. He sat long beside her, numb to the world. At +last he started, for he heard a low clear call behind the House. He +went out quickly to the little platform, and saw through the dusk a man +drawing himself up. It was Brydon. He caught the old man's shoulders +convulsively. "How is she?" he asked. "Come in, my son," was the low +reply. The old man saw a grief greater than his own. He led the husband +to the room where the wife lay beautiful and still. "She is better, as +you see," he said bravely. + +The hours went, and the two sat near the body, one on either side. They +knew not what was going on in the world. + +As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor sat silent in that cottage +on the hillside. They were roused at last. There came up to Pierre's +keen ears the sound of the river. + +"Let us go out," he said; "the river is flooding. You can hear the +logs." + +They came out and watched. The river went swishing, swilling past, and +the dull boom of the logs as they struck the piers of the bridge or some +building on the shore came rolling to them. + +"The dams and booms have burst!" Pierre said. He pointed to the camps +far up the river. By the light of the camp-fires there appeared a wide +weltering flood of logs and debris. Pierre's eyes shifted to the Bridge +House. In one room was a light. He stepped out and down, and the other +followed. They had almost reached the shore, when Pierre cried out +sharply: "What's that?" + +He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing down upon the Bridge House. It +was a big shed that had been carried away, and, jammed between timbers, +had not broken up. There was no time for warning. It came on swiftly, +heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grinding sound, and then they +saw the light of that one room move on, waving a little to and fro-on to +the rapids, the cohorts of logs crowding hard after. + +Where the light was two men had started to their feet when the crash +came. They felt the House move. "Run-save yourself!" cried the old man +quietly. "We are lost!" + +The floor rocked. + +"Go," he said again. "I will stay with her." + +"She is mine," Brydon said; and he took her in his arms. "I will not +go." + +They could hear the rapids below. The old man steadied himself in the +deep water on the floor, and caught out yearningly at the cold hands. + +"Come close, come close," said Brydon. "Closer; put your arms round +her." + +The old man did so. They were locked in each other's arms--dead and +living. + +The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of joy: "We therefore commit her +body to the deep--!" + +The three were never found. + + + + +THE EPAULETTES + +Old Athabasca, chief of the Little Crees, sat at the door of his lodge, +staring down into the valley where Fort Pentecost lay, and Mitawawa +his daughter sat near him, fretfully pulling at the fringe of her fine +buckskin jacket. She had reason to be troubled. Fyles the trader had put +a great indignity upon Athabasca. A factor of twenty years before, in +recognition of the chief's merits and in reward of his services, had +presented him with a pair of epaulettes, left in the Fort by some +officer in Her Majesty's service. A good, solid, honest pair of +epaulettes, well fitted to stand the wear and tear of those high feasts +and functions at which the chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders. +They were the admiration of his own tribe, the wonder of others, the +envy of many chiefs. It was said that Athabasca wore them creditably, +and was no more immobile and grand-mannered than became a chief thus +honoured above his kind. + +But the years went, and there came a man to Fort Pentecost who knew not +Athabasca. He was young, and tall and strong, had a hot temper, knew +naught of human nature, was possessed by a pride more masterful than +his wisdom, and a courage stronger than his tact. He was ever for +high-handedness, brooked no interference, and treated the Indians more +as Company's serfs than as Company's friends and allies. Also, he had +an eye for Mitawawa, and found favour in return, though to what depth it +took a long time to show. The girl sat high in the minds and desires +of the young braves, for she had beauty of a heathen kind, a deft and +dainty finger for embroidered buckskin, a particular fortune with a bow +and arrow, and the fleetest foot. There were mutterings because Fyles +the white man came to sit often in Athabasca's lodge. He knew of this, +but heeded not at all. At last Konto, a young brave who very accurately +guessed at Fyles' intentions, stopped him one day on the Grey Horse +Trail, and in a soft, indolent voice begged him to prove his regard in +a fight without weapons, to the death, the survivor to give the other +burial where he fell. Fyles was neither fool nor coward. It would have +been foolish to run the risk of leaving Fort and people masterless +for an Indian's whim; it would have been cowardly to do nothing. So he +whipped out a revolver, and bade his rival march before him to the Fort; +which Konto very calmly did, begging the favour of a bit of tobacco as +he went. + +Fyles demanded of Athabasca that he should sit in judgment, and should +at least banish Konto from his tribe, hinting the while that he might +have to put a bullet into Konto's refractory head if the thing were not +done. He said large things in the name of the H.B.C., and was surprised +that Athabasca let them pass unmoved. But that chief, after long +consideration, during which he drank Company's coffee and ate Company's +pemmican, declared that he could do nothing: for Konto had made a fine +offer, and a grand chance of a great fight had been missed. This was in +the presence of several petty officers and Indians and woodsmen at the +Fort. Fyles had vanity and a nasty temper. He swore a little, and with +words of bluster went over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief's +shoulders as a punishment, a mark of degradation. The chief said +nothing. He got up, and reached out his hands as if to ask them back; +and when Fyles refused, he went away, drawing his blanket high over +his shoulders. It was wont before to lie loosely about him, to show his +badges of captaincy and alliance. + +This was about the time that the Indians were making ready for the +buffalo, and when their chief took to his lodge, and refused to leave +it, they came to ask him why. And they were told. They were for making +trouble, but the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he would settle +it in his own way. He would not go to the hunt. Konto, he said, should +take his place; and when his braves came back there should be great +feasting, for then the matter would be ended. + +Half the course of the moon and more, and Athabasca came out of his +lodge--the first time in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace. He +and his daughter sat silent and watchful at the door. There had been no +word between Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mitawawa and Fyles. +The Fort was well-nigh tenantless, for the half-breeds also had gone +after buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half-breed cook were +left. + +Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: she had held her peace so long +that even her slow Indian nature could endure no more. "What will my +father Athabasca do?" she asked. "With idleness the flesh grows soft, +and the iron melts from the arm." + +"But when the thoughts are stone, the body is as that of the Mighty Men +of the Kimash Hills. When the bow is long drawn, beware the arrow." + +"It is no answer," she said: "what will my father do?" + +"They were of gold," he answered, "that never grew rusty. My people were +full of wonder when they stood before me, and the tribes had envy as +they passed. It is a hundred moons and one red midsummer moon since the +Great Company put them on my shoulders. They were light to carry, but it +was as if I bore an army. No other chief was like me. That is all over. +When the tribes pass they will laugh, and my people will scorn me if I +do not come out to meet them with the yokes of gold." + +"But what will my father do?" she persisted. + +"I have had many thoughts, and at night I have called on the Spirits who +rule. From the top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft drum, +and called, and sung the hymn which wakes the sleeping Spirits: and I +know the way." + +"What is the way?" Her eyes filled with a kind of fear or trouble, and +many times they shifted from the Fort to her father, and back again. The +chief was silent. Then anger leapt into her face. + +"Why does my father fear to speak to his child?" she said. "I will speak +plain. I love the man: but I love my father also." + +She stood up, and drew her blanket about her, one hand clasped proudly +on her breast. "I cannot remember my mother; but I remember when I first +looked down from my hammock in the pine tree, and saw my father sitting +by the fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker, for the pines +made great shadows. I cried out, and he came and took me down, and laid +me between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat from the pot. He +talked much to me, and his voice was finer than any other. There is no +one like my father--Konto is nothing: but the voice of the white man, +Fyles, had golden words that our braves do not know, and I listened. +Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, because he was a great man of the +Company, would not fight, and drove him like a dog. Then he made my +father as a worm in the eyes of the world. I would give my life for +Fyles the trader, but I would give more than my life to wipe out my +father's shame, and to show that Konto of the Little Crees is no dog. +I have been carried by the hands of the old men of my people, I have +ridden the horses of the young men: their shame is my shame." + +The eyes of the chief had never lifted from the Fort: nor from his look +could you have told that he heard his daughter's words. For a moment +he was silent, then a deep fire came into his eyes, and his wide heavy +brows drew up so that the frown of anger was gone. At last, as she +waited, he arose, put out a hand and touched her forehead. + +"Mitawawa has spoken well," he said. "There will be an end. The yokes of +gold are mine: an honour given cannot be taken away. He has stolen; +he is a thief. He would not fight Konto: but I am a chief and he shall +fight me. I am as great as many men--I have carried the golden yokes: we +will fight for them. I thought long, for I was afraid my daughter loved +the man more than her people: but now I will break him in pieces. Has +Mitawawa seen him since the shameful day?" + +"He has come to the lodge, but I would not let him in unless he brought +the epaulettes. He said he would bring them when Konto was punished. I +begged of him as I never begged of my own father, but he was hard as the +ironwood tree. I sent him away. Yet there is no tongue like his in the +world; he is tall and beautiful, and has the face of a spirit." + +From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With a pair of field-glasses he +could follow their actions, could almost read their faces. "There'll +be a lot of sulking about those epaulettes, Mallory," he said at last, +turning to his clerk. "Old Athabasca has a bee in his bonnet." + +"Wouldn't it be just as well to give 'em back, sir?" Mallory had been at +Fort Pentecost a long time, and he understood Athabasca and his Indians. +He was a solid, slow-thinking old fellow, but he had that wisdom of the +north which can turn from dove to serpent and from serpent to lion in +the moment. + +"Give 'em back, Mallory? I'll see him in Jericho first, unless he goes +on his marrow-bones and kicks Konto out of the camp." + +"Very well, sir. But I think we'd better keep an eye open." + +"Eye open, be hanged! If he'd been going to riot he'd have done so +before this. Besides, the girl--!" Mallory looked long and earnestly at +his master, whose forehead was glued to the field-glass. His little eyes +moved as if in debate, his slow jaws opened once or twice. At last he +said: "I'd give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if I was you, unless I +meant to marry her." Fyles suddenly swung round. "Keep your place, +blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals too. One'd think you were a +missionary." Then with a sudden burst of anger: "Damn it all, if my men +don't stand by me against a pack of treacherous Indians, I'd better get +out." + +"Your men will stand by you, sir: no fear. I've served three traders +here, and my record is pretty clean, Mr. Fyles. But I'll say it to your +face, whether you like it or not, that you're not as good a judge of the +Injin as me, or even Duc the cook: and that's straight as I can say it, +Mr. Fyles." + +Fyles paced up and down in anger--not speaking; but presently threw up +the glass, and looked towards Athabasca's lodge. "They're gone," he said +presently; "I'll go and see them to-morrow. The old fool must do what I +want, or there'll be ructions." + +The moon was high over Fort Pentecost when Athabasca entered the silent +yard. The dogs growled, but Indian dogs growl without reason, and no one +heeds them. The old chief stood a moment looking at the windows, upon +which slush-lights were throwing heavy shadows. He went to Fyles' +window: no one was in the room. He went to another: Mallory and Duc +were sitting at a table. Mallory had the epaulettes, looking at them +and fingering the hooks by which Athabasca had fastened them on. Duc was +laughing: he reached over for an epaulette, tossed it up, caught it and +threw it down with a guffaw. Then the door opened, and Athabasca walked +in, seized the epaulettes, and went swiftly out again. Just outside +the door Mallory clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Duc caught at the +epaulettes. + +Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once there was a cold white flash, +and Duc came huddling to Mallory's feet. For a brief instant Mallory +and the Indian fell apart, then Athabasca with a contemptuous fairness +tossed his knife away, and ran in on his man. They closed; strained, +swayed, became a tangled wrenching mass; and then Mallory was lifted +high into the air, and came down with a broken back. + +Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hurried away, breathing hard, +and hugging them to his bare red-stained breast. He had nearly reached +the gate when he heard a cry. He did not turn, but a heavy stone caught +him high in the shoulders, and he fell on his face and lay clutching the +epaulettes in his outstretched hands. + +Fyles' own hands were yet lifted with the effort of throwing, when he +heard the soft rush of footsteps, and someone came swiftly into his +embrace. A pair of arms ran round his shoulders--lips closed with +his--something ice-cold and hard touched his neck--he saw a bright flash +at his throat. + +In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sitting with wild eyes by her +father's body. She had fastened the epaulettes on its shoulders. Fyles +and his men made a grim triangle of death at the door of the Fort. + + + + +THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER + + "He stands in the porch of the world-- + (Why should the door be shut?) + The grey wolf waits at his heel, + (Why is the window barred?) + Wild is the trail from the Kimash Hills, + The blight has fallen on bush and tree, + The choking earth has swallowed the streams, + Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol: + (Why should the door be shut?) + The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide-- + (Why is the window barred?)" + +Pierre stopped to listen. The voice singing was clear and soft, yet +strong--a mezzo-soprano without any culture save that of practice and +native taste. It had a singular charm--a sweet, fantastic sincerity. +He stood still and fastened his eyes on the house, a few rods away. It +stood on a knoll perching above Fort Ste. Anne. Years had passed since +Pierre had visited the Fort, and he was now on his way to it again, +after many wanderings. The house had stood here in the old days, and he +remembered it very well, for against it John Marcey, the Company's man, +was shot by Stroke Laforce, of the Riders of the Plains. Looking now, he +saw that the shutter, which had been pulled off to bear the body away, +was hanging there just as he had placed it, with seven of its slats +broken and a dark stain in one corner. Something more of John Marcey +than memory attached to that shutter. His eyes dwelt on it long he +recalled the scene: a night with stars and no moon, a huge bonfire to +light the Indians, at their dance, and Marcey, Laforce, and many others +there, among whom was Lucille, the little daughter of Gyng the Factor. +Marcey and Laforce were only boys then, neither yet twenty-three, and +they were friendly rivals with the sweet little coquette, who gave her +favors with a singular impartiality and justice. Once Marcey had given +her a gold spoon. Laforce responded with a tiny, fretted silver basket. +Laforce was delighted to see her carrying her basket, till she opened +it and showed the spoon inside. There were many mock quarrels, in one +of which Marcey sent her a letter by the Company's courier, covered with +great seals, saying, "I return you the hairpin, the egg-shell, and the +white wolf's tooth. Go to your Laforce, or whatever his ridiculous name +may be." + +In this way the pretty game ran on, the little goldenhaired, +golden-faced, golden-voiced child dancing so gayly in their hearts, but +nestling in them too, after her wilful fashion, until the serious thing +came--the tragedy. + +On the mad night when all ended, she was in the gayest, the most +elf-like spirits. All went well until Marcey dug a hole in the ground, +put a stone in it, and, burying it, said it was Laforce's heart. Then +Laforce pretended to ventriloquise, and mocked Marcey's slight stutter. +That was the beginning of the trouble, and Lucille, like any lady of +the world, troubled at Laforce's unkindness, tried to smooth things +over--tried very gravely. But the playful rivalry of many months changed +its composition suddenly as through some delicate yet powerful chemical +action, and the savage in both men broke out suddenly. Where motives +and emotions are few they are the more vital, their action is the more +violent. No one knew quite what the two young men said to each other, +but presently, while the Indian dance was on, they drew to the side of +the house, and had their duel out in the half-shadows, no one knowing, +till the shots rang on the night, and John Marcey, without a cry, sprang +into the air and fell face upwards, shot through the heart. + +They tried to take the child away, but she would not go; and when they +carried Marcey on the shutter she followed close by, resisting her +father's wishes and commands. And just before they made a prisoner of +Laforce, she said to him very quietly--so like a woman she was--"I will +give you back the basket, and the riding-whip, and the other things, and +I will never forgive you--never--no, never!" + +Stroke Laforce had given himself up, had himself ridden to Winnipeg, a +thousand miles, and told his story. Then the sergeant's stripes had been +stripped from his arm, he had been tried, and on his own statement had +got twelve years' imprisonment. Ten years had passed since then--since +Marcey was put away in his grave, since Pierre left Fort Ste. Anne, and +he had not seen it or Lucille in all that time. But he knew that Gyng +was dead, and that his widow and her child had gone south or east +somewhere; of Laforce after his sentence he had never heard. + +He stood looking at the house from the shade of the solitary pine-tree +near it, recalling every incident of that fatal night. He had the gift +of looking at a thing in its true proportions, perhaps because he had +little emotion and a strong brain, or perhaps because early in life his +emotions were rationalised. Presently he heard the voice again: + + "He waits at the threshold stone-- + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The eagle broods at his side, + (Why should the blind be drawn?) + Long has he watched, and far has he called + The lonely sentinel of the North: + "Who goes there?" to the wandering soul: + Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, + (Why should the blind be drawn?)" + +Now he recognised the voice. Its golden timbre brought back a young +girl's golden face and golden hair. It was summer, and the window with +the broken shutter was open. He was about to go to it, when a door of +the house opened, and a girl appeared. She was tall, with rich, yellow +hair falling loosely about her head; she had a strong, finely cut chin +and a broad brow, under which a pair of deep blue eyes shone-violet +blue, rare and fine. She stood looking down at the Fort for a few +moments, unaware of Pierre's presence. But presently she saw him leaning +against the tree, and she started as from a spirit. + +"Monsieur!" she said--"Pierre!" and stepped forward again from the +doorway. + +He came to her, and "Ah, p'tite Lucille," he said, "you remember me, +eh?--and yet so many years ago!" + +"But you remember me," she answered, "and I have changed so much!" + +"It is the man who should remember, the woman may forget if she will." + +Pierre did not mean to pay a compliment; he was merely thinking. + +She made a little gesture of deprecation. "I was a child," she said. + +Pierre lifted a shoulder slightly. "What matter? It is sex that I mean. +What difference to me--five, or forty, or ninety? It is all sex. It is +only lovers, the hunters of fire-flies, that think of age--mais oui!" + +She had a way of looking at you before she spoke, as though she were +trying to find what she actually thought. She was one after Pierre's own +heart, and he knew it; but just here he wondered where all that ancient +coquetry was gone, for there were no traces of it left; she was steady +of eye, reposeful, rich in form and face, and yet not occupied with +herself. He had only seen her for a minute or so, yet he was sure that +what she was just now she was always, or nearly so, for the habits of +a life leave their mark, and show through every phase of emotion and +incident whether it be light or grave. + +"I think I understand you," she said. "I think I always did a little, +from the time you stayed with Grah the idiot at Fort o' God, and fought +the Indians when the others left. Only--men said bad things of you, and +my father did not like you, and you spoke so little to me ever. Yet I +mind how you used to sit and watch me, and I also mind when you rode the +man down who stole my pony, and brought them both back." + +Pierre smiled--he was pleased at this. "Ah, my young friend," he said, +"I do not forget that either, for though he had shaved my ear with +a bullet, you would not have him handed over to the Riders of the +Plains--such a tender heart!" + +Her eyes suddenly grew wide. She was childlike in her amazement, indeed, +childlike in all ways, for she was very sincere. It was her great +advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth, she had +not suffered that sickness, social artifice. + +"I never knew," she said, "that he had shot at you--never! You did not +tell that." + +"There is a time for everything--the time for that was not till now." + +"What could I have done then?" + +"You might have left it to me. I am not so pious that I can't be +merciful to the sinner. But this man--this Brickney--was a vile +scoundrel always, and I wanted him locked up. I would have shot him +myself, but I was tired of doing the duty of the law. Yes, yes," he +added, as he saw her smile a little. "It is so. I have love for justice, +even I, Pretty Pierre. Why not justice on myself? Ha! The law does not +its duty. And maybe some day I shall have to do its work on myself. Some +are coaxed out of life, some are kicked out, and some open the doors +quietly for themselves, and go a-hunting Outside." + +"They used to talk as if one ought to fear you," she said, "but"--she +looked him straight in the eyes--"but maybe that's because you've never +hid any badness." + +"It is no matter, anyhow," he answered. "I live in the open, I walk in +the open road, and I stand by what I do to the open law and the gospel. +It is my whim--every man to his own saddle." + +"It is ten years," she said abruptly. + +"Ten years less five days," he answered as sententiously. + +"Come inside," she said quietly, and turned to the door. + +Without a word he turned also, but instead of going direct to the door +came and touched the broken shutter and the dark stain on one corner +with a delicate forefinger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see +her on the doorstep, looking intently. + +He spoke as if to himself: "It has not been touched since then--no. +It was hardly big enough for him, so his legs hung over. Ah, yes, ten +years--Abroad, John Marcey!" Then, as if still musing, he turned to the +girl: "He had no father or mother--no one, of course; so that it wasn't +so bad after all. If you've lived with the tongue in the last hole of +the buckle as you've gone, what matter when you go! C'est egal--it is +all the same." + +Her face had become pale as he spoke, but no muscle stirred; only her +eyes filled with a deeper color, and her hand closed tightly on the +door-jamb. "Come in, Pierre," she said, and entered. He followed her. +"My mother is at the Fort," she added, "but she will be back soon." + +She placed two chairs not far from the open door. They sat, and Pierre +slowly rolled a cigarette and lighted it. + +"How long have you lived here?" he asked presently. + +"It is seven years since we came first," she replied. "After that night +they said the place was haunted, and no one would live in it, but when +my father died my mother and I came for three years. Then we went east, +and again came back, and here we have been." + +"The shutter?" Pierre asked. + +They needed few explanations--their minds were moving with the same +thought. + +"I would not have it changed, and of course no one cared to touch it. So +it has hung there." + +"As I placed it ten years ago," he said. + +They both became silent for a time, and at last he said: "Marcey had no +one,--Sergeant Laforce a mother." + +"It killed his mother," she whispered, looking into the white sunlight. +She was noting how it was flashed from the bark of the birch-trees near +the Fort. + +"His mother died," she added again, quietly. "It killed her--the gaol +for him!" + +"An eye for an eye," he responded. + +"Do you think that evens John Marcey's death?" she sighed. + +"As far as Marcey's concerned," he answered. "Laforce has his own +reckoning besides." + +"It was not a murder," she urged. + +"It was a fair fight," he replied firmly, "and Laforce shot straight." +He was trying to think why she lived here, why the broken shutter still +hung there, why the matter had settled so deeply on her. He remembered +the song she was singing, the legend of the Scarlet Hunter, the fabled +Savior of the North. + + "Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol-- + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, + (Why should the blind be drawn?)" + +He repeated the words, lingering on them. He loved to come at the truth +of things by allusive, far-off reflections, rather than by the sharp +questioning of the witness-box. He had imagination, refinement in such +things. A light dawned on him as he spoke the words--all became clear. +She sang of the Scarlet Hunter, but she meant someone else! That was +it-- + + "Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol-- + (Why should the door be shut?) + The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide, + (Why is the window barred?)" + +But why did she live here? To get used to a thought, to have it so near +her, that if the man--if Laforce himself came, she would have herself +schooled to endure the shadow and the misery of it all? Ah, that was +it! The little girl, who had seen her big lover killed, who had said she +would never forgive the other, who had sent him back the fretted-silver +basket, the riding-whip, and other things, had kept the criminal in +her mind all these years; had, out of her childish coquetry, grown +into--what? As a child she had been wise for her years--almost too wise. +What had happened? She had probably felt sorrow for Laforce at first, +and afterwards had shown active sympathy, and at last--no, he felt that +she had not quite forgiven him, that, whatever was, she had not hidden +the criminal in her heart. But why did she sing that song? Her heart +was pleading for him--for the criminal. Had she and her mother gone to +Winnipeg to be near Laforce, to comfort him? Was Laforce free now, and +was she unwilling? It was so strange that she should thus have carried +on her childhood into her womanhood. But he guessed her--she had +imagination. + +"His mother died in my arms in Winnipeg," she said abruptly at last. +"I'm glad I was some comfort to her. You see, it all came through me--I +was so young and spoiled and silly--John Marcey's death, her death, and +his long years in prison. Even then I knew better than to set the one +against the other. Must a child not be responsible? I was--I am!" + +"And so you punish yourself?" + +"It was terrible for me--even as a child. I said that I could never +forgive, but when his mother died, blessing me, I did. Then there came +something else." + +"You saw him, there amie?" + +"I saw him--so changed, so quiet, so much older--all grey at the +temples. At first I lived here that I might get used to the thought of +the thing--to learn to bear it; and afterwards that I might learn--" She +paused, looking in half-doubt at Pierre. + +"It is safe; I am silent," he said. + +"That I might learn to bear--him," she continued. + +"Is he still--" Pierre paused. + +She spoke up quickly. "Oh no, he has been free two years." + +"Where is he now?" + +"I don't know." She waited for a minute, then said again, "I don't know. +When he was free, he came to me, but I--I could not. He thought, too, +that because he had been in gaol, that I wouldn't--be his wife. He +didn't think enough of himself, he didn't urge anything. And I wasn't +ready--no--no--no--how could I be! I didn't care so much about the gaol, +but he had killed John Marcey. The gaol--what was that to me! There +was no real shame in it unless he had done a mean thing. He had been +wicked--not mean. Killing is awful, but not shameful. Think--the +difference--if he had been a thief!" + +Pierre nodded. "Then some one should have killed him!" he said. "Well, +after?" + +"After--after--ah, he went away for a year. Then he came back; but no, I +was always thinking of that night I walked behind John Marcey's body +to the Fort. So he went away again, and we came here, and here we have +lived." + +"He has not come here?" + +"No; once from the far north he sent me a letter by an Indian, saying +that he was going with a half-breed to search for a hunting party, an +English gentleman and two men who were lost. The name of one of the men +was Brickney." + +Pierre stopped short in a long whiffing of smoke. "Holy!" he said, "that +thief Brickney again. He would steal the broad road to hell if he could +carry it. He once stole the quarters from a dead man's eyes. Mon Dieu! +to save Brickney's life, the courage to do that--like sticking your face +in the mire and eating!--But, pshaw!--go on, p'tite Lucille." + +"There is no more. I never heard again." + +"How long was that ago?" + +"Nine months or more." + +"Nothing has been heard of any of them?" + +"Nothing at all. The Englishman belonged to the Hudson's Bay Company, +but they have heard nothing down here at Fort Ste. Anne." + +"If he saves the Company's man, that will make up the man he lost for +them, eh--you think that, eh?" Pierre's eyes had a curious ironical +light. + +"I do not care for the Company," she said. "John Marcey's life was his +own." + +"Good!" he added quickly, and his eyes admired her. "That is the thing. +Then, do not forget that Marcey took his life in his hands himself, that +he would have killed Laforce if Laforce hadn't killed him." + +"I know, I know," she said, "but I should have felt the same if John +Marcey had killed Stroke Laforce." + +"It is a pity to throw your life away," he ventured. He said this for a +purpose. He did not think she was throwing it away. + +She was watching a little knot of horsemen coming over a swell of the +prairie far off. She withdrew her eyes and fixed them on Pierre. "Do you +throw your life away if you do what is the only thing you are told to +do?" + +She placed her hand on her heart--that had been her one guide. + +Pierre got to his feet, came over, and touched her on the shoulder. + +"You have the great secret," he said quietly. "The thing may be all +wrong to others, but if it's right to yourself--that's it--mais oui! If +he comes," he added "if he comes back, think of him as well as Marcey. +Marcey is sleeping--what does it matter? If he is awake, he has better +times, for he was a man to make another world sociable. Think of +Laforce, for he has his life to live, and he is a man to make this world +sociable. + + 'The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home-- + (Why should the door be shut?)'" + +Her eyes had been following the group of horsemen on the plains. She +again fixed them on Pierre, and stood up. + +"It is a beautiful legend--that," she said. + +"But?--but?" he asked. + +She would not answer him. "You will come again," she said; "you +will--help me?" + +"Surely, p'tite Lucille, surely, I will come. But to help--ah, that +would sound funny to the Missionary at the Fort and to others!" + +"You understand life," she said, "and I can speak to you." + +"It's more to you to understand you than to be good, eh?" + +"I guess it's more to any woman," she answered. They both passed out of +the house. She turned towards the broken shutter. Then their eyes met. A +sad little smile hovered at her lips. + +"What is the use?" she said, and her eyes fastened on the horsemen. + +He knew now that she would never shudder again at the sight of it, or at +the remembrance of Marcey's death. + +"But he will come," was the reply to her, and her smile almost settled +and stayed. + +They parted, and as he went down the hill he saw far over, coming up, a +woman in black, who walked as if she carried a great weight. "Every shot +that kills ricochets," he said to himself: + +"His mother dead--her mother like that!" + +He passed into the Fort, renewing acquaintances in the Company's store, +and twenty minutes after he was one to greet the horsemen that Lucille +had seen coming over the hills. They were five, and one had to be helped +from his horse. It was Stroke Laforce, who had been found near dead at +the Metal River by a party of men exploring in the north. + +He had rescued the Englishman and his party, but within a day of the +finding the Englishman died, leaving him his watch, a ring, and a cheque +on the H. B. C. at Winnipeg. He and the two survivors, one of whom was +Brickney, started south. One night Brickney robbed him and made to get +away, and on his seizing the thief he was wounded. Then the other man +came to his help and shot Brickney: after that weeks of wandering, and +at last rescue and Fort Ste. Anne. + +A half-hour after this Pierre left Laforce on the crest of the hill +above the Fort, and did not turn to go down till he had seen the other +pass within the house with the broken shutter. And later he saw a +little bonfire on the hill. The next evening he came to the house again +himself. Lucille rose to meet him. + +"'Why should the door be shut?"' he quoted smiling. + +"The door is open," she answered quickly and with a quiet joy. + +He turned to the motion of her hand, and saw Laforce asleep on a couch. + +Soon afterwards, as he passed from the house, he turned towards the +window. The broken shutter was gone. + +He knew now the meaning of the bonfire the night before. + + + + +THE FINDING OF FINGALL + +"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" + +A grey mist was rising from the river, the sun was drinking it +delightedly, the swift blue water showed underneath it, and the top of +Whitefaced Mountain peaked the mist by a hand-length. The river brushed +the banks like rustling silk, and the only other sound, very sharp and +clear in the liquid monotone, was the crack of a woodpecker's beak on a +hickory tree. + +It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in Lonesome Valley. Before +night the deer would bellow reply to the hunters' rifles, and the +mountain-goat call to its unknown gods; but now there was only the wild +duck skimming the river, and the high hilltop rising and fading into the +mist, the ardent sun, and again that strange cry-- + +"Fingall!--Oh, Fingall! Fingall!" + +Two men, lounging at a fire on a ledge of the hills, raised their eyes +to the mountain-side beyond and above them, and one said presently: + +"The second time. It's a woman's voice, Pierre." Pierre nodded, and +abstractedly stirred the coals about with a twig. + +"Well, it is a pity--the poor Cynthie," he said at last. + +"It is a woman, then. You know her, Pierre--her story?" + +"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" + +Pierre raised his head towards the sound; then after a moment, said: + +"I know Fingall." + +"And the woman? Tell me." + +"And the girl. Fingall was all fire and heart, and devil-may-care. +She--she was not beautiful except in the eye, but that was like a flame +of red and blue. Her hair, too--then--would trip her up, if it hung +loose. That was all, except that she loved him too much. But women--et +puis, when a woman gets a man between her and the heaven above and the +earth beneath, and there comes the great hunger, what is the good! A man +cannot understand, but he can see, and he can fear. What is the good! To +play with life, that is not much; but to play with a soul is more than a +thousand lives. Look at Cynthie." + +He paused, and Lawless waited patiently. Presently Pierre continued: + +Fingall was gentil; he would take off his hat to a squaw. It made no +difference what others did; he didn't think--it was like breathing to +him. How can you tell the way things happen? Cynthie's father kept the +tavern at St. Gabriel's Fork, over against the great saw-mill. Fingall +was foreman of a gang in the lumberyard. Cynthie had a brother--Fenn. +Fenn was as bad as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall knew it +well, though he hated the young skunk. The girl's eyes were like two +little fire-flies when Fingall was about. + +"He was a gentleman, though he had only half a name--Fingall--like +that. I think he did not expect to stay; he seemed to be waiting +for something--always when the mail come in he would be there; and +afterwards you wouldn't see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he +made up his mind to think nothing of Cynthie, and to say nothing." + +"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" + +The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded nearer. "She's coming this +way, Pierre," said Lawless. + +"I hope not to see her. What is the good!" + +"Well, let us have the rest of the story." + +"Her brother Fenn was in Fingall's gang. One day there was trouble. Fenn +called Fingall a liar. The gang stopped piling; the usual thing did not +come. Fingall told him to leave the yard, and they would settle some +other time. That night a wicked thing happened. We were sitting in the +bar-room when we heard two shots and then a fall. We ran into the other +room; there was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted himself on his +elbow, pointed at Fingall--and fell back. The father of the boy stood +white and still a few feet away. There was no pistol showing--none at +all. + +"The men closed in on Fingall. He did not stir--he seemed to be thinking +of something else. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look. The men roared +round him, but he waved them back for a moment, and looked first at the +father, then at the son. I could not understand at first. Someone pulled +a pistol out of Fingall's pocket and showed it. At that moment Cynthie +came in. She gave a cry. By the holy! I do not want to hear a cry like +that often. She fell on her knees beside the boy, and caught his head +to her breast. Then with a wild look she asked who did it. They had just +taken Fingall out into the bar-room. They did not tell her his name, for +they knew that she loved him. + +"'Father,' she said all at once, 'have you killed the man that killed +Fenn?' + +"The old man shook his head. There was a sick colour in his face. + +"'Then I will kill him,' she said. + +"She laid her brother's head down, and stood up. Someone put in her hand +the pistol, and told her it was the same that had killed Fenn. She took +it, and came with us. The old man stood still where he was; he was like +stone. I looked at him for a minute and thought; then I turned round and +went to the bar-room; and he followed. Just as I got inside the door, +I saw the girl start back, and her hand drop, for she saw that it was +Fingall; he was looking at her very strange. It was the rule to empty +the gun into a man who had been sentenced; and already Fingall had heard +his, 'God-have-mercy!' The girl was to do it. + +"Fingall said to her in a muffled voice, 'Fire--Cynthie!' + +"I guessed what she would do. In a kind of a dream she raised the pistol +up--up--up, till I could see it was just out of range of his head, and +she fired. One! two! three! four! five! Fingall never moved a muscle; +but the bullets spotted the wall at the side of his head. She stopped +after the five; but the arm was still held out, and her finger was on +the trigger; she seemed to be all dazed. Only six chambers were in the +gun, and of course one chamber was empty. Fenn had its bullet in his +lungs, as we thought. So someone beside Cynthie touched her arm, pushing +it down. But there was another shot, and this time, because of the push, +the bullet lodged in Fingall's skull." + +Pierre paused now, and waved with his hand towards the mist which hung +high up like a canopy between the hills. + +"But," said Lawless, not heeding the scene, "what about that sixth +bullet?" + +"Holy, it is plain! Fingall did not fire the shot. His revolver was +full, every chamber, when Cynthie first took it." + +"Who killed the lad?" + +"Can you not guess? There had been words between the father and the +boy: both had fierce blood. The father, in a mad minute, fired; the +boy wanted revenge on Fingall, and, to save his father, laid it on the +other. The old man? Well, I do not know whether he was a coward, or +stupid, or ashamed--he let Fingall take it." + +"Fingall took it to spare the girl, eh?" + +"For the girl. It wasn't good for her to know her father killed his own +son." + +"What came after?" + +"The worst. That night the girl's father killed himself, and the two +were buried in the same grave. Cynthie--" + +"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" + +"You hear? Yes, like that all the time as she sat on the floor, her +hair about her like a cloud, and the dead bodies in the next room. She +thought she had killed Fingall, and she knew now that he was innocent. +The two were buried. Then we told her that Fingall was not dead. She +used to come and sit outside the door, and listen to his breathing, and +ask if he ever spoke of her. What was the good of lying? If we said he +did, she'd have come in to him, and that would do no good, for he wasn't +right in his mind. By and by we told her he was getting well, and +then she didn't come, but stayed at home, just saying his name over to +herself. Alors, things take hold of a woman--it is strange! When Fingall +was strong enough to go out, I went with him the first time. He was all +thin and handsome as you can think, but he had no memory, and his eyes +were like a child's. She saw him, and came out to meet him. What does a +woman care for the world when she loves a man? Well, he just looked +at her as if he'd never seen her before, and passed by without a sign, +though afterwards a trouble came in his face. Three days later he was +gone, no one knew where. That is two years ago. Ever since she has been +looking for him." + +"Is she mad?" + +"Mad? Holy Mother! it is not good to have one thing in the head all the +time! What do you think? So much all at once! And then--" + +"Hush, Pierre! There she is!" said Lawless, pointing to a ledge of rock +not far away. + +The girl stood looking out across the valley, a weird, rapt look in her +face, her hair falling loose, a staff like a shepherd's crook in one +hand, the other hand over her eyes as she slowly looked from point to +point of the horizon. + +The two watched her without speaking. Presently she saw them. She gazed +at them for a minute, then descended to them. Lawless and Pierre rose, +doffing their hats. She looked at both a moment, and her eyes settled on +Pierre. Presently she held out her hand to him. "I knew you--yesterday," +she said. + +Pierre returned the intensity of her gaze with one kind and strong. + +"So--so, Cynthie," he said; "sit down and eat." + +He dropped on a knee and drew a scone and some fish from the ashes. She +sat facing them, and, taking from a bag at her side some wild fruits, +ate slowly, saying nothing. Lawless noticed that her hair had become +grey at her temples, though she was but one-and-twenty years old. Her +face, brown as it was, shone with a white kind of light, which may, or +may not, have come from the crucible of her eyes, where the tragedy of +her life was fusing. Lawless could not bear to look long, for the fire +that consumes a body and sets free a soul is not for the sight of the +quick. At last she rose, her body steady, but her hands having that +tremulous activity of her eyes. + +"Will you not stay, Cynthie?" asked Lawless very kindly. + +She came close to him, and, after searching his eyes, said with a smile +that almost hurt him, "When I have found him, I will bring him to your +camp-fire. Last night the Voice said that he waits for me where the mist +rises from the river at daybreak, close to the home of the White Swan. +Do you know where is the home of the White Swan? Before the frost comes +and the red wolf cries, I must find him. Winter is the time of sleep. + +"I will give him honey and dried meat. I know where we shall live +together. You never saw such roses! Hush! I have a place where we can +hide." + +Suddenly her gaze became fixed and dream-like, and she said slowly: "In +all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the hour of +death, and in the Day of Judgment, Good Lord, deliver us!" + +"Good Lord, deliver us!" repeated Lawless in a low voice. Without +looking at them, she slowly turned away and passed up the hill-side, her +eyes scanning the valley as before. + +"Good Lord, deliver us!" again said Lawless. "Where did she get it?" + +"From a book which Fingall left behind." + +They watched her till she rounded a cliff, and was gone; then they +shouldered their kits and passed up the river on the trail of the +wapiti. + +One month later, when a fine white surf of frost lay on the ground, and +the sky was darkened often by the flight of the wild geese southward, +they came upon a hut perched on a bluff, at the edge of a clump of +pines. It was morning, and Whitefaced Mountain shone clear and high, +without a touch of cloud or mist from its haunches to its crown. + +They knocked at the hut door, and, in answer to a voice, entered. The +sunlight streamed in over a woman, lying upon a heap of dried flowers +in a corner. A man was kneeling beside her. They came near, and saw that +the woman was Cynthie. + +"Fingall!" broke out Pierre, and caught the kneeling man by the +shoulder. At the sound of his voice the woman's eyes opened. + +"Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" she said, and reached up a hand. + +Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: "Cynthie! poor girl! Oh, +my poor Cynthie!" he said. In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, +and his voice, as hers, said indescribable things. + +Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes closed; she slept. Fingall +laid her down with a sob in his throat; then he sat up and clutched +Pierre's hand. + +"In the East, where the doctors cured me, I heard all," he said, +pointing to her, "and I came to find her. I was just in time; I found +her yesterday." + +"She knew you?" whispered Pierre. + +"Yes, but this fever came on." He turned and looked at her, and, +kneeling, smoothed away the hair from the quiet face. "Poor girl!" he +said; "poor girl!" + +"She will get well?" asked Pierre. + +"God grant it!" Fingall replied. "She is better--better." + +Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole away, leaving the man alone +with the woman he loved. + +The two stood in silence, looking upon the river beneath. Presently a +voice crept through the stillness. "Fingall! Oh, Fingall!--Fingall!" + +It was the voice of a woman returning from the dead. + + + + +THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE + + +I + +"Read on, Pierre," the sick man said, doubling the corner of the +wolf-skin pillow so that it shaded his face from the candle. + +Pierre smiled to himself, thinking of the unusual nature of his +occupation, raised an eyebrow as if to someone sitting at the other side +of the fire,--though the room was empty save for the two--and went on +reading: + + "Woe to the multitude of many people, which make a noise like the + noise of the seas; and to the rushing of nations, that make a + rushing like the rushing of mighty waters! + + "The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters: but God + shall rebuke them, and they shall flee far off, and shall be chased + as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling + thing before the whirlwind. + + "And behold at evening-tide trouble; and before the morning he is + not. This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them + that rob us." + +The sick man put up his hand, motioning for silence, and Pierre, leaving +the Bible open, laid it at his side. Then he fell to studying the figure +on the couch. The body, though reduced by a sudden illness, had an +appearance of late youth, a firmness of mature manhood; but the hair was +grey, the beard was grizzled, and the face was furrowed and seamed as +though the man had lived a long, hard life. The body seemed thirty +years old, the head sixty; the man's exact age was forty-five. His most +singular characteristic was a fine, almost spiritual intelligence, which +showed in the dewy brightness of the eye, in the lighted face, in +the cadenced definiteness of his speech. One would have said, knowing +nothing of him, that he was a hermit; but again, noting the firm, +graceful outlines of his body, that he was a soldier. Within the past +twenty-four hours he had had a fight for life with one of the terrible +"colds" which, like an unstayed plague, close up the courses of the +body, and carry a man out of the hurly-burly, without pause to say how +much or how little he cares to go. + +Pierre, whose rude skill in medicine was got of hard experiences here +and there, had helped him back into the world again, and was himself +now a little astonished at acting as Scripture reader to a Protestant +invalid. Still, the Bible was like his childhood itself, always with him +in memory, and Old Testament history was as wine to his blood. The lofty +tales sang in his veins: of primitive man, adventure, mysterious and +exalted romance. For nearly an hour, with absorbing interest, he had +read aloud from these ancient chronicles to Fawdor, who held this Post +of the Hudson's Bay Company in the outer wilderness. + +Pierre had arrived at the Post three days before, to find a half-breed +trapper and an Indian helpless before the sickness which was hurrying to +close on John Fawdor's heart and clamp it in the vice of death. He had +come just in time. He was now ready to learn, by what ways the future +should show, why this man, of such unusual force and power, should have +lived at a desolate post in Labrador for twenty-five years. + +"'This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them that +rob us--'" Fawdor repeated the words slowly, and then said: "It is +good to be out of the restless world. Do you know the secret of life, +Pierre?" + +Pierre's fingers unconsciously dropped on the Bible at his side, +drumming the leaves. His eyes wandered over Fawdor's face, and presently +he answered, "To keep your own commandments." + +"The ten?" asked the sick man, pointing to the Bible. Pierre's fingers +closed the book. "Not the ten, for they do not fit all; but one by one +to make your own, and never to break--comme ca!" + +"The answer is well," returned Fawdor; "but what is the greatest +commandment that a man can make for himself?" + +"Who can tell? What is the good of saying, 'Thou shalt keep holy the +Sabbath day,' when a man lives where he does not know the days? What is +the good of saying, 'Thou shalt not steal,' when a man has no heart to +rob, and there is nothing to steal? But a man should have a heart, an +eye for justice. It is good for him to make his commandments against +that wherein he is a fool or has a devil. Justice,--that is the thing." + +"'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour'?" asked +Fawdor softly. + +"Yes, like that. But a man must put it in his own words, and keep the +law which he makes. Then life does not give a bad taste in the mouth." + +"What commandments have you made for yourself, Pierre?" + +The slumbering fire in Pierre's face leaped up. He felt for an instant +as his father, a chevalier of France, might have felt if a peasant had +presumed to finger the orders upon his breast. It touched his native +pride, so little shown in anything else. But he knew the spirit behind +the question, and the meaning justified the man. "Thou shalt think +with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman," he said, and +paused. + +"Justice and mercy," murmured the voice from the bed. + +"Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket." Again Pierre paused. + +"And a man shall have no cause to fear his friend," said the voice +again. + +The pause was longer this time, and Pierre's cold, handsome face took +on a kind of softness before he said, "Remember the sorrow of thine own +wife." + +"It is a good commandment," said the sick man, "to make all women safe +whether they be true--or foolish." + +"The strong should be ashamed to prey upon the weak. Pshaw! such a sport +ends in nothing. Man only is man's game." + +Suddenly Pierre added: "When you thought you were going to die, you gave +me some papers and letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. Shall I +give them back? Will you take them yourself?" + +Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know his story. He reached out a +hand, saying, "I will take them myself. You have not read them?" + +"No. I was not to read them till you died--bien?" He handed the packet +over. + +"I will tell you the story," Fawdor said, turning over on his side, so +that his eyes rested full on Pierre. + +He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the finest and yet wildest +breed, which had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, opened +its red eyes at the two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and +sniffed at the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing restlessly +around the room. Every little while it would stop, sniff the air, and go +on again. Once or twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick man, +it paused, and at last it suddenly rose, rested two feet on the rude +headboard of the couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid's head. +There was something rarely savage and yet beautifully soft in the dog's +face, scarred as it was by the whips of earlier owners. The sick man's +hand went up and caressed the wolfish head. "Good dog, good Akim!" he +said softly in French. "Thou dost know when a storm is on the way; thou +dost know, too, when there is a storm in my heart." + +Even as he spoke a wind came crying round the house, and the parchment +windows gave forth a soft booming sound. Outside, Nature was trembling +lightly in all her nerves; belated herons, disturbed from the freshly +frozen pool, swept away on tardy wings into the night and to the south; +a herd of wolves, trooping by the hut, passed from a short, easy trot +to a low, long gallop, devouring, yet fearful. It appeared as though +the dumb earth were trying to speak, and the mighty effort gave it pain, +from which came awe and terror to living things. + +So, inside the house, also, Pierre almost shrank from the unknown sorrow +of this man beside him, who was about to disclose the story of his life. +The solitary places do not make men glib of tongue; rather, spare of +words. They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly, being +given the woe of imagination, bring forth inner history as a mother +gasps life into the world. + +"I was only a boy of twenty-one," Fawdor said from the pillow, as he +watched the dog noiselessly travelling from corner to corner, "and I had +been with the Company three years. They had said that I could rise fast; +I had done so. I was ambitious; yet I find solace in thinking that I saw +only one way to it,--by patience, industry, and much thinking. I read +a great deal, and cared for what I read; but I observed also, that in +dealing with men I might serve myself and the Company wisely. + +"One day the governor of the Company came from England, and with him a +sweet lady, his young niece, and her brother. They arranged for a tour +to the Great Lakes, and I was chosen to go with them in command of the +boatmen. It appeared as if a great chance had come to me, and so said +the factor at Lachine on the morning we set forth. The girl was as +winsome as you can think; not of such wonderful beauty, but with a face +that would be finer old than young; and a dainty trick of humour had she +as well. The governor was a testy man; he could not bear to be crossed +in a matter; yet, in spite of all, I did not think he had a wilful +hardness. It was a long journey, and we were set to our wits to make it +always interesting; but we did it somehow, for there were fishing and +shooting, and adventure of one sort and another, and the lighter things, +such as singing and the telling of tales, as the boatmen rowed the long +river. + +"We talked of many things as we travelled, and I was glad to listen to +the governor, for he had seen and read much. It was clear he liked +to have us hang upon his tales and his grand speeches, which seemed a +little large in the mouth; and his nephew, who had a mind for raillery, +was now and again guilty of some witty impertinence; but this was hard +to bring home to him, for he could assume a fine childlike look when he +pleased, confusing to his accusers. Towards the last he grew bolder, +and said many a biting thing to both the governor and myself, which more +than once turned his sister's face pale with apprehension, for she had a +nice sense of kindness. Whenever the talk was at all general, it was his +delight to turn one against the other. Though I was wary, and the girl +understood his game, at last he had his way. + +"I knew Shakespeare and the Bible very well, and, like most bookish +young men, phrase and motto were much on my tongue, though not always +given forth. One evening, as we drew to the camp-fire, a deer broke from +the woods and ran straight through the little circle we were making, and +disappeared in the bushes by the riverside. Someone ran for a rifle; but +the governor forbade, adding, with an air, a phrase with philosophical +point. I, proud of the chance to show I was not a mere backwoodsman +at such a sport, capped his aphorism with a line from Shakespeare's +Cymbeline. + +"'Tut, tut!' said the governor smartly; 'you haven't it well, Mr. +Fawdor; it goes this way,' and he went on to set me right. His nephew +at that stepped in, and, with a little disdainful laugh at me, made some +galling gibe at my 'distinguished learning.' I might have known better +than to let it pique me, but I spoke up again, though respectfully +enough, that I was not wrong. It appeared to me all at once as if some +principle were at stake, as if I were the champion of our Shakespeare; +so will vanity delude us. + +"The governor--I can see it as if it were yesterday--seemed to go like +ice, for he loved to be thought infallible in all such things as well as +in great business affairs, and his nephew was there to give an edge to +the matter. He said, curtly, that I would probably come on better in the +world if I were more exact and less cock-a-hoop with myself. That stung +me, for not only was the young lady looking on with a sort of superior +pity, as I thought, but her brother was murmuring to her under his +breath with a provoking smile. I saw no reason why I should be treated +like a schoolboy. As far as my knowledge went it was as good as another +man's, were he young or old, so I came in quickly with my reply. I said +that his excellency should find me more cock-a-hoop with Shakespeare +than with myself. 'Well, well,' he answered, with a severe look, 'our +Company has need of great men for hard tasks.' To this I made no answer, +for I got a warning look from the young lady,--a look which had a +sort of reproach and command too. She knew the twists and turns of her +uncle's temper, and how he was imperious and jealous in little things. +The matter dropped for the time; but as the governor was going to his +tent for the night, the young lady said to me hurriedly, 'My uncle is a +man of great reading--and power, Mr. Fawdor. I would set it right with +him, if I were you.' For the moment I was ashamed. You cannot guess how +fine an eye she had, and how her voice stirred one! She said no more, +but stepped inside her tent; and then I heard the brother say over my +shoulder, 'Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud!' Afterwards, +with a little laugh and a backward wave of the hand, as one might toss a +greeting to a beggar, he was gone also, and I was left alone." + +Fawdor paused in his narrative. The dog had lain down by the fire again, +but its red eyes were blinking at the door, and now and again it growled +softly, and the long hair at its mouth seemed to shiver with feeling. +Suddenly through the night there rang a loud, barking cry. The dog's +mouth opened and closed in a noiseless snarl, showing its keen, long +teeth, and a ridge of hair bristled on its back. But the two men made no +sign or motion. The cry of wild cats was no new thing to them. + +Presently the other continued: "I sat by the fire and heard beasts howl +like that, I listened to the river churning over the rapids below, and +I felt all at once a loneliness that turned me sick. There were three +people in a tent near me; I could even hear the governor's breathing; +but I appeared to have no part in the life of any human being, as if I +were a kind of outlaw of God and man. I was poor; I had no friends; I +was at the mercy of this great Company; if I died, there was not a human +being who, so far as I knew, would shed a tear. Well, you see I was only +a boy, and I suppose it was the spirit of youth hungering for the huge, +active world and the companionship of ambitious men. There is no one +so lonely as the young dreamer on the brink of life. I was lying by +the fire. It was not a cold night, and I fell asleep at last without +covering. I did not wake till morning, and then it was to find the +governor's nephew building up the fire again. 'Those who are born +great,' said he, 'are bound to rise.' But perhaps he saw that I had +had a bad night, and felt that he had gone far enough, for he presently +said, in a tone more to my liking, 'Take my advice, Mr. Fawdor; make it +right with my uncle. It isn't such fast rising in the Company that you +can afford to quarrel with its governor. I'd go on the other tack: don't +be too honest.' I thanked him, and no more was said; but I liked him +better, for I saw that he was one of those who take pleasure in dropping +nettles more to see the weakness of human nature than from malice. + +"But my good fortune had got a twist, and it was not to be straightened +that day; and because it was not straightened then it was not to be at +all; for at five o'clock we came to the Post at Lachine, and here the +governor and the others were to stop. During all the day I had waited +for my chance to say a word of apology to his excellency, but it was +no use; nothing seemed to help me, for he was busy with his papers and +notes, and I also had to finish up my reports. The hours went by, and +I saw my chances drift past. I knew that the governor held the thing +against me, and not the less because he saw me more than once that day +in speech with his niece. For she appeared anxious to cheer me, and +indeed I think we might have become excellent friends had our ways run +together. She could have bestowed her friendship on me without shame to +herself, for I had come of an old family in Scotland, the Sheplaws of +Canfire, which she knew, as did the governor also, was a more ancient +family than their own. Yet her kindness that day worked me no good, and +I went far to make it worse, since, under the spell of her gentleness, +I looked at her far from distantly, and at the last, as she was getting +from the boat, returned the pressure of her hand with much interest. I +suppose something of the pride of that moment leaped up in my eye, for +I saw the governor's face harden more and more, and the brother shrugged +an ironical shoulder. I was too young to see or know that the chief +thing in the girl's mind was regret that I had so hurt my chances; for +she knew, as I saw only too well afterwards, that I might have been +rewarded with a leaping promotion in honour of the success of the +journey. But though the boatmen got a gift of money and tobacco and +spirits, nothing came to me save the formal thanks of the governor, as +he bowed me from his presence. + +"The nephew came with his sister to bid me farewell. There was little +said between her and me, and it was a long, long time before she knew +the end of that day's business. But the brother said, 'You've let the +chance go by, Mr. Fawdor. Better luck next time, eh? And,' he went on, +'I'd give a hundred editions the lie, but I'd read the text according to +my chief officer. The words of a king are always wise while his head is +on,' he declared further, and he drew from his scarf a pin of pearls and +handed it to me. 'Will you wear that for me, Mr. Fawdor?' he asked; and +I, who had thought him but a stripling with a saucy pride, grasped his +hand and said a God-keep-you. It does me good now to think I said it. I +did not see him or his sister again. + +"The next day was Sunday. About two o'clock I was sent for by the +governor. When I got to the Post and was admitted to him, I saw that my +misadventure was not over. 'Mr. Fawdor,' said he coldly, spreading out a +map on the table before him, 'you will start at once for Fort Ungava, at +Ungava Bay, in Labrador.' I felt my heart stand still for a moment, and +then surge up and down, like a piston-rod under a sudden rush of steam. +'You will proceed now,' he went on, in his hard voice, 'as far as the +village of Pont Croix. There you will find three Indians awaiting you. +You will go on with them as far as Point St. Saviour and camp for the +night, for if the Indians remain in the village they may get drunk. The +next morning, at sunrise, you will move on. The Indians know the trail +across Labrador to Fort Ungava. When you reach there, you will take +command of the Post and remain till further orders. Your clothes are +already at the village. I have had them packed, and you will find there +also what is necessary for the journey. The factor at Ungava was there +ten years; he has gone--to heaven.' + +"I cannot tell what it was held my tongue silent, that made me only +bow my head in assent, and press my lips together. I knew I was pale as +death, for as I turned to leave the room I caught sight of my face in a +little mirror tacked on the door, and I hardly recognised myself. + +"'Good-day, Mr. Fawdor,' said the governor, handing me the map. 'There +is some brandy in your stores; be careful that none of your Indians +get it. If they try to desert, you know what to do.' With a gesture of +dismissal he turned, and began to speak with the chief trader. + +"For me, I went from that room like a man condemned to die. Fort Ungava +in Labrador,--a thousand miles away, over a barren, savage country, and +in winter too; for it would be winter there immediately! It was an exile +to Siberia, and far worse than Siberia; for there are many there to +share the fellowship of misery, and I was likely to be the only white +man at Fort Ungava. As I passed from the door of the Post the words of +Shakespeare which had brought all this about sang in my ears." He ceased +speaking, and sank back wearily among the skins of his couch. Out of the +enveloping silence Pierre's voice came softly: + +"Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one +woman." + + + +II + +"The journey to the village of Pont Croix was that of a man walking over +graves. Every step sent a pang to my heart,--a boy of twenty-one, grown +old in a moment. It was not that I had gone a little lame from a hurt +got on the expedition with the governor, but my whole life seemed +suddenly lamed. Why did I go? Ah, you do not know how discipline gets +into a man's bones, the pride, the indignant pride of obedience! At that +hour I swore that I should myself be the governor of that Company one +day,--the boast of loud-hearted youth. I had angry visions, I dreamed +absurd dreams, but I did not think of disobeying. It was an unheard-of +journey at such a time, but I swore that I would do it, that it should +go into the records of the Company. + +"I reached the village, found the Indians, and at once moved on to the +settlement where we were to stay that night. Then my knee began to pain +me. I feared inflammation; so in the dead of night I walked back to the +village, roused a trader of the Company, got some liniment and other +trifles, and arrived again at St. Saviour's before dawn. My few clothes +and necessaries came in the course of the morning, and by noon we were +fairly started on the path to exile. + +"I remember that we came to a lofty point on the St. Lawrence just +before we plunged into the woods, to see the great stream no more. I +stood and looked back up the river towards the point where Lachine lay. +All that went to make the life of a Company's man possible was there; +and there, too, were those with whom I had tented and travelled for +three long months,--eaten with them, cared for them, used for them all +the woodcraft that I knew. I could not think that it would be a young +man's lifetime before I set eyes on that scene again. Never from that +day to this have I seen the broad, sweet river where I spent the three +happiest years of my life. I can see now the tall shining heights of +Quebec, the pretty wooded Island of Orleans, the winding channel, so +deep, so strong. The sun was three-fourths of its way down in the west, +and already the sky was taking on the deep red and purple of autumn. +Somehow, the thing that struck me most in the scene was a bunch of +pines, solemn and quiet, their tops burnished by the afternoon light. +Tears would have been easy then. But my pride drove them back from my +eyes to my angry heart. Besides, there were my Indians waiting, and the +long journey lay before us. Then, perhaps because there was none nearer +to make farewell to, or I know not why, I waved my hand towards the +distant village of Lachine, and, with the sweet maid in my mind who had +so gently parted from me yesterday, I cried, 'Good-bye, and God bless +you.'" + +He paused. Pierre handed him a wooden cup, from which he drank, and then +continued: + +"The journey went forward. You have seen the country. You know what it +is: those bare ice-plains and rocky unfenced fields stretching to all +points, the heaving wastes of treeless country, the harsh frozen lakes. +God knows what insupportable horror would have settled on me in +that pilgrimage had it not been for occasional glimpses of a gentler +life--for the deer and caribou which crossed our path. Upon my soul, I +was so full of gratitude and love at the sight that I could have thrown +my arms round their necks and kissed them. I could not raise a gun at +them. My Indians did that, and so inconstant is the human heart that I +ate heartily of the meat. My Indians were almost less companionable to +me than any animal would have been. Try as I would, I could not bring +myself to like them, and I feared only too truly that they did not like +me. Indeed, I soon saw that they meant to desert me,--kill me, perhaps, +if they could, although I trusted in the wholesome and restraining fear +which the Indian has of the great Company. I was not sure that they were +guiding me aright, and I had to threaten death in case they tried to +mislead me or desert me. My knee at times was painful, and cold, hunger, +and incessant watchfulness wore on me vastly. Yet I did not yield to +my miseries, for there entered into me then not only the spirit of +endurance, but something of that sacred pride in suffering which was the +merit of my Covenanting forefathers. + +"We were four months on that bitter travel, and I do not know how it +could have been made at all, had it not been for the deer that I had +heart to eat and none to kill. The days got shorter and shorter, and we +were sometimes eighteen hours in absolute darkness. Thus you can imagine +how slowly we went. Thank God, we could sleep, hid away in our fur bags, +more often without a fire than with one,--mere mummies stretched out +on a vast coverlet of white, with the peering, unfriendly sky above us; +though it must be said that through all those many, many weeks no cloud +perched in the zenith. When there was light there was sun, and the +courage of it entered into our bones, helping to save us. You may think +I have been made feeble-minded by my sufferings, but I tell you plainly +that, in the closing days of our journey, I used to see a tall figure +walking beside me, who, whenever I would have spoken to him, laid a +warning finger on his lips; but when I would have fallen, he spoke to +me, always in the same words. You have heard of him, the Scarlet Hunter +of the Kimash Hills. It was he, the Sentinel of the North, the Lover of +the Lost. So deep did his words go into my heart that they have remained +with me to this hour." + +"I saw him once in the White Valley," Pierre said in a low voice. "What +was it he said to you?" + +The other drew a long breath, and a smile rested on his lips. Then, +slowly, as though liking to linger over them, he repeated the words of +the Scarlet Hunter: + + "'O son of man, behold! + If thou shouldest stumble on the nameless trail, + The trail that no man rides, + Lift up thy heart, + Behold, O son of man, thou hast a helper near! + + "'O son of man, take heed! + If thou shouldst fall upon the vacant plain, + The plain that no man loves, + Reach out thy hand, + Take heed, O son of man, strength shall be given thee! + + "'O son of man, rejoice! + If thou art blinded even at the door, + The door of the Safe Tent, + Sing in thy heart, + Rejoice, O son of man, thy pilot leads thee home?' + +"I never seemed to be alone after that--call it what you will, fancy or +delirium. My head was so light that it appeared to spin like a star, +and my feet were so heavy that I dragged the whole earth after me. My +Indians seldom spoke. I never let them drop behind me, for I did not +trust their treacherous natures. But in the end, as it would seem, they +also had but one thought, and that to reach Fort Ungava; for there was +no food left, none at all. We saw no tribes of Indians and no Esquimaux, +for we had not passed in their line of travel or settlement. + +"At last I used to dream that birds were singing near me,--a soft, +delicate whirlwind of sound; and then bells all like muffled silver rang +through the aching, sweet air. Bits of prayer and poetry I learned when +a boy flashed through my mind; equations in algebra; the tingling scream +of a great buzz-saw; the breath of a racer as he nears the post under +the crying whip; my own voice dropping loud profanity, heard as a lad +from a blind ferryman; the boom! boom! of a mass of logs as they struck +a house on a flooding river and carried it away.... + +"One day we reached the end. It was near evening, and we came to the +top of a wooded knoll. My eyes were dancing in my head with fatigue +and weakness, but I could see below us, on the edge of the great bay, a +large hut, Esquimau lodges and Indian tepees near it. It was the Fort, +my cheerless prison-house." + +He paused. The dog had been watching him with its flaming eyes; now it +gave a low growl, as though it understood, and pitied. In the interval +of silence the storm without broke. The trees began to quake and cry, +the light snow to beat upon the parchment windows, and the chimney to +splutter and moan. Presently, out on the bay they could hear the young +ice break and come scraping up the shore. Fawdor listened a while, and +then went on, waving his hand to the door as he began: "Think! this, +and like that always: the ungodly strife of nature, and my sick, +disconsolate life." + +"Ever since?" asked Pierre. "All the time." + +"Why did you not go back?" + +"I was to wait for orders, and they never came." + +"You were a free man, not a slave." + +"The human heart has pride. At first, as when I left the governor at +Lachine, I said, 'I will never speak, I will never ask nor bend the +knee. He has the power to oppress; I can obey without whining, as fine a +man as he.'" + +"Did you not hate?" + +"At first, as only a banished man can hate. I knew that if all had gone +well I should be a man high up in the Company, and here I was, living +like a dog in the porch of the world, sometimes without other food for +months than frozen fish; and for two years I was in a place where we had +no fire,--lived in a snow-house, with only blubber to eat. And so year +after year, no word!" + +"The mail came once every year from the world?" "Yes, once a year the +door of the outer life was opened. A ship came into the bay, and by that +ship I sent out my reports. But no word came from the governor, and +no request went from me. Once the captain of that ship took me by the +shoulders, and said, 'Fawdor, man, this will drive you mad. Come away to +England,--leave your half-breed in charge,--and ask the governor for a +big promotion.' He did not understand. Of course I said I could not go. +Then he turned on me, he was a good man,--and said, 'This will either +make you madman or saint, Fawdor.' He drew a Bible from his pocket and +handed it to me. 'I've used it twenty years,' he said, 'in evil and out +of evil, and I've spiked it here and there; it's a chart for heavy seas, +and may you find it so, my lad.' + +"I said little then; but when I saw the sails of his ship round a cape +and vanish, all my pride and strength were broken up, and I came in a +heap to the ground, weeping like a child. But the change did not come +all at once. There were two things that kept me hard." + +"The girl?" + +"The girl, and another. But of the young lady after. I had a half-breed +whose life I had saved. I was kind to him always; gave him as good to +eat and drink as I had myself; divided my tobacco with him; loved him as +only an exile can love a comrade. He conspired with the Indians to seize +the Fort and stores, and kill me if I resisted. I found it out." + +"Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket," said Pierre. "What did +you do with him?" + +"The fault was not his so much as of his race and his miserable past. I +had loved him. I sent him away; and he never came back." + +"Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one +woman." + +"For the girl. There was the thing that clamped my heart. Never a +message from her or her brother. Surely they knew, and yet never, +thought I, a good word for me to the governor. They had forgotten the +faith of food and blanket. And she--she must have seen that I could have +worshipped her, had we been in the same way of life. Before the better +days came to me I was hard against her, hard and rough at heart." + +"Remember the sorrow of thine own wife." Pierre's voice was gentle. + +"Truly, to think hardly of no woman should be always in a man's heart. +But I have known only one woman of my race in twenty-five years!" + +"And as time went on?" + +"As time went on, and no word came, I ceased to look for it. But I +followed that chart spiked with the captain's pencil, as he had done +it in season and out of season, and by and by I ceased to look for any +word. I even became reconciled to my life. The ambitious and aching +cares of the world dropped from me, and I stood above all--alone in my +suffering, yet not yielding. Loneliness is a terrible thing. Under it a +man--" + +"Goes mad or becomes a saint--a saint!" Pierre's voice became reverent. + +Fawdor shook his head, smiling gently. "Ah no, no. But I began to +understand the world, and I loved the north, the beautiful hard north." + +"But there is more?" + +"Yes, the end of it all. Three days before you came I got a packet of +letters, not by the usual yearly mail. One announced that the governor +was dead. Another--" + +"Another?" urged Pierre--"was from Her. She said that her brother, on +the day she wrote, had by chance come across my name in the Company's +records, and found that I had been here a quarter of a century. It +was the letter of a good woman. She said she thought the governor had +forgotten that he had sent me here--as now I hope he had, for that would +be one thing less for him to think of, when he set out on the journey +where the only weight man carries is the packload of his sins. She also +said that she had written to me twice after we parted at Lachine, but +had never heard a word, and three years afterwards she had gone to +India. The letters were lost, I suppose, on the way to me, somehow--who +can tell? Then came another thing, so strange, that it seemed like +the laughter of the angels at us. These were her words: 'And, dear +Mr. Fawdor, you were both wrong in that quotation, as you no doubt +discovered long ago.' Then she gave me the sentence as it is in +Cymbeline. She was right, quite right. We were both wrong. Never till +her letter came had I looked to see. How vain, how uncertain, and +fallible, is man!" + +Pierre dropped his cigarette, and stared at Fawdor. "The knowledge of +books is foolery," he said slowly. "Man is the only book of life. Go +on." + +"There was another letter, from the brother, who was now high up in the +Company, asking me to come to England, and saying that they wished to +promote me far, and that he and his sister, with their families, would +be glad to see me." + +"She was married then?" + +The rashness of the suggestion made Fawdor wave his hand impatiently. He +would not reply to it. "I was struck down with all the news," he said. +"I wandered like a child out into a mad storm. Illness came; then you, +who have nursed me back to life.... And now I have told all." + +"Not all, bien sur. What will you do?" + +"I am out of the world; why tempt it all again? See how those +twenty-five years were twisted by a boy's vanity and a man's tyranny!" + +"But what will you do?" persisted Pierre. "You should see the faces of +women and children again. No man can live without that sight, even as a +saint." + +Suddenly Fawdor's face was shot over with a storm of feeling. He lay +very still, his thoughts busy with a new world which had been disclosed +to him. "Youth hungers for the vanities," he said, "and the middle-aged +for home." He took Pierre's hand. "I will go," he added. "A door will +open somewhere for me." + +Then he turned his face to the wall. The storm had ceased, the wild +dog huddled quietly on the hearth, and for hours the only sound was the +crackling of the logs as Pierre stirred the fire. + + + + +LITTLE BABICHE + +"No, no, m'sieu' the governor, they did not tell you right. I was with +him, and I have known Little Babiche fifteen years--as long as I've +known you.... It was against the time when down in your world there they +have feastings, and in the churches the grand songs and many candles on +the altars. Yes, Noel, that is the word--the day of the Great Birth. You +shall hear how strange it all was--the thing, the time, the end of it." + +The governor of the great Company settled back in a chair, his powerful +face seamed by years, his hair grey and thick still, his keen, steady +eyes burning under shaggy brows. He had himself spent long solitary +years in the wild fastnesses of the north. He fastened his dark eyes on +Pierre, and said: "Monsieur Pierre, I shall be glad to hear. It was at +the time of Noel--yes?" + +Pierre began: "You have seen it beautiful and cold in the north, but +never so cold and beautiful as it was last year. The world was white +with sun and ice, the frost never melting, the sun never warming--just +a glitter, so lovely, so deadly. If only you could keep the heart warm, +you were not afraid. But if once--just for a moment--the blood ran out +from the heart and did not come in again, the frost clamped the doors +shut, and there was an end of all. Ah, m'sieu', when the north clinches +a man's heart in anger there is no pain like it--for a moment." + +"Yes, yes; and Little Babiche?" + +"For ten years he carried the mails along the route of Fort St. Mary, +Fort O'Glory, Fort St. Saviour, and Fort Perseverance within the +circle-just one mail once a year, but that was enough. There he was with +his Esquimaux dogs on the trail, going and coming, with a laugh and a +word for anyone that crossed his track. 'Good-day, Babiche' 'Good-day, +m'sieu'.' 'How do you, Babiche?' 'Well, thank the Lord, m'sieu'.' 'Where +to and where from, Babiche?' 'To the Great Fort by the old trail, +from the Far-off River, m'sieu'.' 'Come safe along, Babiche.' 'Merci, +m'sieu'; the good God travels north, m'sieu'.' 'Adieu, Babiche.' 'Adieu, +m'sieu'.' That is about the way of the thing, year after year. Sometimes +a night at a hut or a post, but mostly alone--alone, except for the +dogs. He slept with them, and they slept on the mails--to guard: as +though there should be highwaymen on the Prairie of the Ten Stars! But +no, it was his way, m'sieu'. Now and again I crossed him on the trail, +for have I not travelled to every corner of the north? We were not so +great friends, for--well, Babiche is a man who says his aves, and never +was a loafer, and there was no reason why he should have love for me; +but we were good company when we met. I knew him when he was a boy down +on the Chaudiere, and he always had a heart like a lion-and a woman. +I had seen him fight, I had seen him suffer cold, and I had heard him +sing. + +"Well, I was up last fall to Fort St. Saviour. Ho, how dull was it! +Macgregor, the trader there, has brains like rubber. So I said, I will +go down to Fort O'Glory. I knew someone would be there--it is nearer the +world. So I started away with four dogs and plenty of jerked buffalo, +and so much brown brandy as Macgregor could squeeze out of his eye! +Never, never were there such days--the frost shaking like steel and +silver as it powdered the sunlight, the white level of snow lifting and +falling, and falling and lifting, the sky so great a travel away, the +air which made you cry out with pain one minute and gave you joy the +next. And all so wild, so lonely! Yet I have seen hanging in those +plains cities all blue and red with millions of lights showing, and +voices, voices everywhere, like the singing of soft masses. After a +time in that cold up there you are no longer yourself--no. You move in +a dream. Eh bien, m'sieu', there came, I thought, a dream to me one +evening--well, perhaps one afternoon, for the days are short--so short, +the sun just coming over a little bend of sky, and sinking down like a +big orange ball. I come out of a tumble of little hills, and there over +on the plains I saw a sight! Ragged hills of ice were thrown up, as if +they'd been heaved out by the breaking earth, jutting here and there +like wedges--like the teeth of a world. Alors, on one crag, shaped as an +anvil, I saw what struck me like a blow, and I felt the blood shoot out +of my heart and leave it dry. I was for a minute like a pump with no +water in its throat to work the piston and fetch the stream up. I got +sick and numb. There on that anvil of snow and ice I saw a big white +bear, one such as you shall see within the Arctic Circle, his long +nose fetching out towards that bleeding sun in the sky, his white coat +shining. But that was not the thing--there was another. At the feet of +the bear was a body, and one clawed foot was on that body--of a man. +So clear was the air, the red sun shining on the face as it was turned +towards me, that I wonder I did not at once know whose it was. You +cannot think, m'sieu', what that was like--no. But all at once I +remembered the Chant of the Scarlet Hunter. I spoke it quick, and the +blood came creeping back in here." He tapped his chest with his slight +forefinger. + +"What was the chant?" asked the governor, who had scarce stirred +a muscle since the tale began. Pierre made a little gesture of +deprecation. "Ah, it is perhaps a thing of foolishness, as you may +think--" + +"No, no. I have heard and seen in my day," urged the governor. + +"So? Good. Yes, I remember, you told me years ago, m'sieu'.... + + "The blinding Trail and Night and Cold are man's: mine is the trail + that finds the Ancient Lodge. Morning and Night they travel with + me; my camp is set by the pines, its fires are burning--are burning. + The lost, they shall sit by my fires, and the fearful ones shall + seek, and the sick shall abide. I am the Hunter, the Son of the + North; I am thy lover where no man may love thee. With me thou + shalt journey, and thine the Safe Tent. + +"As I said, the blood came back to my heart. I turned to my dogs, and +gave them a cut with the whip to see if I dreamed. They sat back and +snarled, and their wild red eyes, the same as mine, kept looking at the +bear and the quiet man on the anvil of ice and snow. Tell me, can you +think of anything like it?--the strange light, the white bear of the +Pole, that has no friends at all except the shooting stars, the great +ice plains, the quick night hurrying on, the silence--such silence as no +man can think! I have seen trouble flying at me in a hundred ways, but +this was different--yes. We come to the foot of the little hill. Still +the bear not stir. As I went up, feeling for my knives and my gun, the +dogs began to snarl with anger, and for one little step I shivered, for +the thing seem not natural. I was about two hundred feet away from the +bear when it turned slow round at me, lifting its foot from the body. +The dogs all at once come huddling about me, and I dropped on my knee to +take aim, but the bear stole away from the man and come moving down past +us at an angle, making for the plain. I could see his deep shining eyes, +and the steam roll from his nose in long puffs. Very slow and heavy, +like as if he see no one and care for no one, he shambled down, and in a +minute was gone behind a boulder. I ran on to the man--" + +The governor was leaning forward, looking intently, and said now: "It's +like a wild dream--but the north--the north is near to the Strangest of +All!" + +"I knelt down and lifted him up in my arms, all a great bundle of furs +and wool, and I got my hand at last to his wrist. He was alive. It was +Little Babiche! Part of his face was frozen stiff. I rubbed out the +frost with snow, and then I forced some brandy into his mouth, good old +H.B.C. brandy,--and began to call to him: 'Babiche! Babiche! Come back, +Babiche! The wolf's at the pot, Babiche!' That's the way to call a +hunter to his share of meat. I was afraid, for the sleep of cold is the +sleep of death, and it is hard to call the soul back to this world. But +I called, and kept calling, and got him on his feet, with my arm round +him. I gave him more brandy; and at last I almost shrieked in his ear. +Little by little I saw his face take on the look of waking life. It was +like the dawn creeping over white hills and spreading into day. I said +to myself: What a thing it will be if I can fetch him back! For I never +knew one to come back after the sleep had settled on them. It is too +comfortable--all pain gone, all trouble, the world forgot, just a kind +weight in all the body, as you go sinking down, down to the valley, +where the long hands of old comrades beckon to you, and their soft, +high voices cry, 'Hello! hello-o!'" Pierre nodded his head towards +the distance, and a musing smile divided his lips on his white teeth. +Presently he folded a cigarette, and went on: + +"I had saved something to the last, as the great test, as the one thing +to open his eyes wide, if they could be opened at all. Alors, there was +no time to lose, for the wolf of Night was driving the red +glow-worm down behind the world, and I knew that when darkness came +altogether--darkness and night--there would be no help for him. Mon +Dieu! how one sleeps in the night of the north, in the beautiful wide +silence!... So, m'sieu', just when I thought it was the time, I called, +'Corinne! Corinne!' Then once again I said, 'P'tite Corinne! P'tite +Corinne! Come home! come home! P'tite Corinne!' I could see the fight +in the jail of sleep. But at last he killed his jailer; the doors in his +brain flew open, and his mind came out through his wide eyes. But he was +blind a little and dazed, though it was getting dark quick. I struck +his back hard, and spoke loud from a song that we used to sing on the +Chaudiere--Babiche and all of us, years ago. Mon Dieu! how I remember +those days-- + + "'Which is the way that the sun goes? + The way that my little one come. + Which is the good path over the hills? + The path that leads to my little one's home-- + To my little one's home, m'sieu', m'sieu'!' + +"That did it. 'Corinne, ma p'tite Corinne!' he said; but he did not look +at me--only stretch out his hands. I caught them, and shook them, and +shook him, and made him take a step forward; then I slap him on the +back again, and said loud: 'Come, come, Babiche, don't you know me? +See Babiche, the snow's no sleeping-bunk, and a polar bear's no good +friend.' 'Corinne!' he went on, soft and slow. 'Ma p'tite Corinne!' +He smiled to himself; and I said, 'Where've you been, Babiche? Lucky +I found you, or you'd have been sleeping till the Great Mass.' Then he +looked at me straight in the eyes, and something wild shot out of his. +His hand stretched over and caught me by the shoulder, perhaps to steady +himself, perhaps because he wanted to feel something human. Then he +looked round slow-all round the plain, as if to find something. At that +moment a little of the sun crept back, and looked up over the wall of +ice, making a glow of yellow and red for a moment; and never, north or +south, have I seen such beauty--so delicate, so awful. It was like a +world that its Maker had built in a fit of joy, and then got tired of, +and broke in pieces, and blew out all its fires, and left--ah +yes--like that! And out in the distance I--I only saw a bear travelling +eastwards." + +The governor said slowly: + + And I took My staff Beauty, and cut it asunder, that I might break + My covenant which I had made with all the people. + +"Yes--like that." Pierre continued: "Babiche turned to me with a little +laugh, which was a sob too. 'Where is it, Pierre?' said he. I knew he +meant the bear. 'Gone to look for another man,' I said, with a gay look, +for I saw that he was troubled. 'Come,' said he at once. As we went, he +saw my dogs. He stopped short and shook a little, and tears came into +his eyes. 'What is it, Babiche?' said I. He looked back towards the +south. 'My dogs--Brandy-wine, Come-along, 'Poleon, and the rest--died +one night all of an hour. One by one they crawl over to where I lay in +my fur bag, and die there, huddling by me--and such cries--such cries! +There was poison or something in the frozen fish I'd given them. I loved +them every one; and then there was the mails, the year's mails--how +should they be brought on? That was a bad thought, for I had never +missed--never in ten years. There was one bunch of letters which the +governor said to me was worth more than all the rest of the mails put +together, and I was to bring it to Fort St. Saviour, or not show my face +to him again. I leave the dogs there in the snow, and come on with the +sled, carrying all the mails. Ah, the blessed saints, how heavy the sled +got, and how lonely it was! Nothing to speak to--no one, no thing, +day after day. At last I go to cry to the dogs, "Come-along! 'Poleon! +Brandy-wine!"--like that! I think I see them there, but they never bark +and they never snarl, and they never spring to the snap of the whip.... +I was alone. Oh, my head! my head! If there was only something alive to +look at, besides the wide white plain, and the bare hills of ice, and +the sun-dogs in the sky! Now I was wild, next hour I was like a child, +then I gnash my teeth like a wolf at the sun, and at last I got on my +knees. The tears froze my eyelids shut, but I kept saying, "Ah, my great +Friend, my Jesu, just something, something with the breath of life! +Leave me not all alone!" and I got sleepier all the time. + +"'I was sinking, sinking, so quiet and easy, when all at once I felt +something beside me; I could hear it breathing, but I could not open my +eyes at first, for, as I say, the lashes were froze. Something touch me, +smell me, and a nose was push against my chest. I put out my hand ver' +soft and touch it. I had no fear, I was so glad I could have hug it, but +I did not--I drew back my hand quiet and rub my eyes. In a little I can +see. There stand the thing--a polar bear--not ten feet away, its red +eyes shining. On my knees I spoke to it, talk to it, as I would to a +man. It was like a great wild dog, fierce, yet kind, and I fed it with +the fish which had been for Brandy-wine and the rest--but not to kill +it! and it did not die. That night I lie down in my bag--no, I was not +afraid! The bear lie beside me, between me and the sled. Ah, it was +warm! Day after day we travel together, and camp together at night--ah, +sweet Sainte Anne, how good it was, myself and the wild beast such +friends, alone in the north! But to-day--a little while ago--something +went wrong with me, and I got sick in the head, a swimming like a tide +wash in and out. I fall down-asleep. When I wake I find you here beside +me--that is all. The bear must have drag me here.'" + +Pierre stuck a splinter into the fire to light another cigarette, and +paused as if expecting the governor to speak, but no word coming, he +continued: "I had my arm around him while we talked and come slowly down +the hill. Soon he stopped and said, 'This is the place.' It was a +cave of ice, and we went in. Nothing was there to see except the sled. +Babiche stopped short. It come to him now that his good comrade was +gone. He turned, and looked out, and called, but there was only the +empty night, the ice, and the stars. Then he come back, sat down on the +sled, and the tears fall.... I lit my spirit-lamp, boiled coffee, got +pemmican from my bag, and I tried to make him eat. No. He would only +drink the coffee. At last he said to me, 'What day is this, Pierre?' 'It +is the day of the Great Birth, Babiche,' I said. He made the sign of the +cross, and was quiet, so quiet! but he smile to himself, and kept saying +in a whisper: 'Ma p'tite Corinne! Ma p'tite Corinne!' The next day we +come on safe, and in a week I was back at Fort St. Saviour with Babiche +and all the mails, and that most wonderful letter of the governor's." + +"The letter was to tell a factor that his sick child in the hospital at +Quebec was well," the governor responded quietly. "Who was 'Ma p'tite +Corinne,' Pierre?" + +"His wife--in heaven; and his child--on the Chaudiere, m'sieu'. The +child came and the mother went on the same day of the Great Birth. He +has a soft heart--that Babiche!" + +"And the white bear--so strange a thing!" + +"M'sieu', who can tell? The world is young up here. When it was all +young, man and beast were good comrades, maybe." + +"Ah, maybe. What shall be done with Little Babiche, Pierre?" + +"He will never be the same again on the old trail, m'sieu'!" + +There was silence for a long time, but at last the governor said, +musing, almost tenderly, for he never had a child: "Ma p'tite +Corinne!--Little Babiche shall live near his child, Pierre. I will see +to that." + +Pierre said no word, but got up, took off his hat to the governor, and +sat down again. + + + + +AT POINT O' BUGLES + +"John York, John York, where art thou gone, John York?" + +"What's that, Pierre?" said Sir Duke Lawless, starting to his feet and +peering round. + +"Hush!" was Pierre's reply. "Wait for the rest.... There!" + +"King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy +bugles." + +Sir Duke was about to speak, but Pierre lifted a hand in warning, and +then through the still night there came the long cry of a bugle, rising, +falling, strangely clear, echoing and echoing again, and dying away. +A moment, and the call was repeated, with the same effect, and again a +third time; then all was still, save for the flight of birds roused from +the desire of night, and the long breath of some animal in the woods +sinking back to sleep. + +Their camp was pitched on the south shore of Hudson's Bay, many leagues +to the west of Rupert House, not far from the Moose River. Looking north +was the wide expanse of the bay, dotted with sterile islands here and +there; to the east were the barren steppes of Labrador, and all round +them the calm, incisive air of a late September, when winter begins to +shake out his frosty curtains and hang them on the cornice of the north, +despite the high protests of the sun. The two adventurers had come +together after years of separation, and Sir Duke had urged Pierre to +fare away with him to Hudson's Bay, which he had never seen, although he +had shares in the great Company, left him by his uncle the admiral. + +They were camped in a hollow, to the right a clump of hardy trees, with +no great deal of foliage, but some stoutness; to the left a long finger +of land running out into the water like a wedge, the most eastern +point of the western shore of Hudson's Bay. It was high and bold, and, +somehow, had a fine dignity and beauty. From it a path led away north to +a great log-fort called King's House. + +Lawless saw Pierre half rise and turn his head, listening. Presently he, +too, heard the sound-the soft crash of crisp grass under the feet. He +raised himself to a sitting posture and waited. + +Presently a tall figure came out of the dusk into the light of their +fire, and a long arm waved a greeting at them. Both Lawless and Pierre +rose to their feet. The stranger was dressed in buckskin, he carried a +rifle, and around his shoulder was a strong yellow cord, from which hung +a bugle. + +"How!" he said, with a nod, and drew near the fire, stretching out his +hands to the blaze. + +"How!" said Lawless and Pierre. + +After a moment Lawless drew from his blanket a flask of brandy, and +without a word handed it over the fire. The fingers of the two men +met in the flicker of flames, a sort of bond by fire, and the stranger +raised the flask. + +"Chin-chin," he said, and drank, breathing a long sigh of satisfaction +afterwards as he handed it back; but it was Pierre that took it, and +again fingers touched in the bond of fire. Pierre passed the flask to +Lawless, who lifted it. + +"Chin-chin," he said, drank, and gave the flask to Pierre again, who did +as did the others, and said "Chin-chin" also. + +By that salutation of the east, given in the far north, Lawless knew +that he had met one who had lighted fires where men are many and close +to the mile as holes in a sieve. + +They all sat down, and tobacco went round, the stranger offering his, +while the two others, with true hospitality, accepted. + +"We heard you over there--it was you?" said Lawless, nodding towards +Point o' Bugles, and glancing at the bugle the other carried. + +"Yes, it was I," was the reply. "Someone always does it twice a year: on +the 25th September and the 25th March. I've done it now without a break +for ten years, until it has got to be a sort of religion with me, and +the whole thing's as real as if King George and John York were talking. +As I tramp to the point or swing away back, in summer barefooted, in +winter on my snowshoes, to myself I seem to be John York on the trail of +the king's bugles. I've thought so much about the whole thing, I've +read so many of John York's letters--and how many times one of the +King's!--that now I scarcely know which is the bare story, and which the +bit's I've dreamed as I've tramped over the plains or sat in the quiet +at King's House, spelling out little by little the man's life, from the +cues I found in his journal, in the Company's papers, and in that one +letter of the King's." + +Pierre's eyes were now more keen than those of Lawless: for years he had +known vaguely of this legend of Point o' Bugles. + +"You know it all," he said--"begin at the beginning: how and when you +first heard, how you got the real story, and never mind which is taken +from the papers and which from your own mind--if it all fits in it is +all true, for the lie never fits in right with the square truth. If you +have the footprints and the handprints you can tell the whole man; +if you have the horns of a deer you know it as if you had killed it, +skinned it, and potted it." + +The stranger stretched himself before the fire, nodding at his hosts as +he did so, and then began: + +"Well, a word about myself first," he said, "so you'll know just where +you are. I was full up of life in London town and India, and that's a +fact. I'd plenty of friends and little money, and my will wasn't equal +to the task of keeping out of the hands of the Jews. I didn't know what +to do, but I had to go somewhere, that was clear. Where? An accident +decided it. I came across an old journal of my great-grandfather, John +York,--my name's Dick Adderley,--and just as if a chain had been put +round my leg and I'd been jerked over by the tipping of the world, I +had to come to Hudson's Bay. John York's journal was a thing to sit +up nights to read. It came back to England after he'd had his fill of +Hudson's Bay and the earth beneath, and had gone, as he himself said on +the last page of the journal, to follow the king's buglers in 'the land +that is far off.' God and the devil were strong in old John York. I +didn't lose much time after I'd read the journal. I went to Hudson's Bay +house in London, got a place in the Company, by the help of the governor +himself, and came out. I've learned the rest of the history of old +John York--the part that never got to England; for here at King's House +there's a holy tradition that the real John York belongs to it and to it +alone." + +Adderley laughed a little. "King's House guards John York's memory, and +it's as fresh and real here now as though he'd died yesterday; though +it's forgotten in England, and by most who bear his name, and the +present Prince of Wales maybe never heard of the roan who was a close +friend of the Prince Regent, the First Gentleman of Europe." + +"That sounds sweet gossip," said Lawless, with a smile; "we're waiting." + +Adderley continued: "John York was an honest man, of wholesome sport, +jovial, and never shirking with the wine, commendable in his appetite, +of rollicking soul and proud temper, and a gay dog altogether--gay, but +to be trusted, too, for he had a royal heart. In the coltish days of the +Prince Regent he was a boon comrade, but never did he stoop to flattery, +nor would he hedge when truth should be spoken, as ofttimes it was +needed with the royal blade, for at times he would forget that a prince +was yet a man, topped with the accident of a crown. Never prince had +truer friend, and so in his best hours he thought, himself, and if he +ever was just and showed his better part, it was to the bold country +gentleman who never minced praise or blame, but said his say and devil +take the end of it. In truth, the Prince was wilful, and once he did a +thing which might have given a twist to the fate of England. Hot for the +love of women, and with some dash of real romance in him too, else even +as a prince he might have had shallower love and service,--he called +John York one day and said: + +"'To-night at seven, Squire John, you'll stand with me while I put +the seal on the Gates of Eden;' and, when the other did not guess his +import, added: 'Sir Mark Selby is your neighbour--his daughter's for +my arms to-night. You know her, handsome Sally Selby--she's for your +prince, for good or ill.' + +"John York did not understand at first, for he could not think the +Prince had anything in mind but some hot escapade of love. When Mistress +Selby's name was mentioned his heart stood still, for she had been +his choice, the dear apple of his eye, since she had bloomed towards +womanhood. He had set all his hopes upon her, tarrying till she should +have seen some little life before he asked her for his wife. He had +her father's Godspeed to his wooing, for he was a man whom all men knew +honest and generous as the sun, and only choleric with the mean thing. +She, also, had given him good cause to think that he should one day take +her to his home, a loved and honoured wife. His impulse, when her name +passed the Prince's lips, was to draw his sword, for he would have +called an emperor to account; but presently he saw the real meaning of +the speech: that the Prince would marry her that night." + +Here the story-teller paused again, and Pierre said softly, inquiringly: + +"You began to speak in your own way, and you've come to another +way--like going from an almanac to the Mass." + +The other smiled. "That's so. I've heard it told by old Shearton at +King's House, who speaks as if he'd stepped out of Shakespeare, and +somehow I seem to hear him talking, and I tell it as he told it last +year to the governor of the Company. Besides, I've listened these seven +years to his style." + +"It's a strange beginning--unwritten history of England," said Sir Duke +musingly. + +"You shall hear stranger things yet," answered Adderley. "John York +could hardly believe it at first, for the thought of such a thing never +had place in his mind. Besides, the Prince knew how he had looked +upon the lady, and he could not have thought his comrade would come in +between him and his happiness. Perhaps it was the difficulty, adding +spice to the affair, that sent the Prince to the appeal of private +marriage to win the lady, and John York always held that he loved her +truly then, the first and only real affection of his life. The lady--who +can tell what won her over from the honest gentleman to the faithless +prince? That soul of vanity which wraps about the real soul of every +woman fell down at last before the highest office in the land, and the +gifted bearer of the office. But the noble spirit in her brought him +to offer marriage, when he might otherwise have offered, say, a barony. +There is a record of that and more in John York's Memoirs which I will +tell you, for they have settled in my mind like an old song, and I +learned them long ago. I give you John York's words written by his own +hands: + +"'I did not think when I beheld thee last, dearest flower of the world's +garden, that I should see thee bloom in that wide field, rank with the +sorrows of royal favour. How did my foolish eyes fill with tears when +I watched thee, all rose and gold in thy cheeks and hair, the light +falling on thee through the chapel window, putting thy pure palm into my +prince's, swearing thy life away, selling the very blossoms of earth's +orchards for the brier beauty of a hidden vineyard! I saw the flying +glories of thy cheeks, the halcyon weather of thy smile, the delicate +lifting of thy bosom, the dear gaiety of thy step, and, at that moment, +I mourned for thy sake that thou wert not the dullest wench in the land, +for then thou hadst been spared thy miseries, thou hadst been saved the +torture-boot of a lost love and a disacknowledged wifedom. Yet I could +not hide from me that thou wert happy at that great moment, when he +swore to love and cherish thee, till death you parted. + +"Ah, George, my prince, my king, how wickedly thou didst break thy vows +with both of us who loved thee well, through good and ill report--for +they spake evil of thee, George; ay, the meanest of thy subjects spake +lightly of their king--when with that sweet soul secretly hid away in +the farthest corner of thy kingdom, thou soughtst divorce from thy later +Caroline, whom thou, unfaithful, didst charge with infidelity. When, at +last, thou didst turn again to the partner of thy youth, thy true wife +in the eyes of God, it was too late. Thou didst promise me that thou +wouldst never take another wife, never put our dear heart away, though +she could not--after our miserable laws--bear thee princes. Thou didst +break thy promise, yet she forgave thee, and I forgave thee, for well we +knew that thou wouldst pay a heavy reckoning, and that in the hour when +thou shouldst cry to us we might not come to thee; that in the days when +age and sorrow and vast troubles should oppress thee, thou wouldst long +for the true hearts who loved thee for thyself and not for aught thou +wudst give, or aught that thou wert, save as a man. + +"'When thou didst proclaim thy purpose to take Caroline to wife, I +pleaded with thee, I was wroth with thee. Thy one plea was succession. +Succession! Succession! What were a hundred dynasties beside that +precious life, eaten by shame and sorrow? It were easy for others, not +thy children, to come after thee, to rule as well as thee, as must even +now be the case, for thou hast no lawful child save that one in the +loneliest corner of thy English vineyard--alack! alack! I warned thee +George, I pleaded, and thou didst drive me out with words ill-suited to +thy friend who loved thee. + +"'I did not fear thee, I would have forced thee to thy knees or made +thee fight me, had not some good spirit cried to my heart that thou wert +her husband, and that we both had loved thee. I dared not listen to +the brutal thing thou hintedst at--that now I might fatten where I had +hungered. Thou hadst to answer for the baseness of that thought to the +King of kings, when thou wentest forth alone, no subject, courtier, +friend, wife, or child to do thee service, journeying--not en prince, +George; no, not en prince! but as a naked soul to God. + +"'Thou saidst to me: "Get thee gone, John York, where I shall no more +see thee." And when I returned, "Wouldst thou have me leave thy country, +sir?" thou answeredst: "Blow thy quarrelsome soul to the stars where +my farthest bugle cries." Then I said: "I go, sir, till thou callest +me again--and after; but not till thou hast honoured the child of thy +honest wedlock; till thou hast secured thy wife to the end of her life +against all manner of trouble save the shame of thy disloyalty." There +was no more for me to do, for my deep love itself forbade my staying +longer within reach of the noble deserted soul. And so I saw +the chastened glory of her face no more, nor evermore beheld her +perfectness.'" + +Adderley paused once more, and, after refilling his pipe in silence, +continued: + +"That was the heart of the thing. His soul sickened of the rank world, +as he called it, and he came out to the Hudson's Bay country, leaving +his estates in care of his nephew, but taking many stores and great +chests of clothes and a shipload of furniture, instruments of music, +more than a thousand books, some good pictures, and great stores of +wine. Here he came and stayed, an officer of the Company, building +King's House, and filling it with all the fine things he had brought +with him, making in this far north a little palace in the wilderness. +Here he lived, his great heart growing greater in this wide sinewy +world, King's House a place of pilgrimage for all the Company's men in +the north; a noble gentleman in a sweet exile, loving what he could no +more, what he did no more, see. + +"Twice a year he went to that point yonder and blew this bugle, no man +knew why or wherefore, year in, year out, till 1817. Then there came +a letter to him with great seals, which began: 'John York, John York, +where art thou gone, John York?' There followed a score of sorrowful +sentences, full of petulance, too, for it was as John York foretold, his +prince longed for the 'true souls' whom he had cast off. But he called +too late, for the neglected wife died from the shock of her prince's +longing message to her, and when, by the same mail, John York knew that, +he would not go back to England to the King. But twice every year he +went to yonder point and spoke out the King's words to him: 'John York, +John York, where art thou gone, John York?' and gave the words of his +own letter in reply: 'King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on +the trail of thy bugles.' To this he added three calls of the bugle, as +you have heard." + +Adderley handed the bugle to Lawless, who looked at it with deep +interest and passed it on to Pierre. "When he died," Adderley continued, +"he left the house, the fittings, and the stores to the officers of +the Company who should be stationed there, with a sum of money yearly, +provided that twice in twelve months the bugle should be blown as you +have heard it, and those words called out." + +"Why did he do that?" asked Lawless, nodding towards the point. + +"Why do they swing the censers at the Mass?" interjected Pierre. "Man +has signs for memories, and one man seeing another's sign will remember +his own." + +"You stay because you like it--at King's House?" asked Lawless of +Adderley. + +The other stretched himself lazily to the fire and, "I am at home," he +said. "I have no cares. I had all there was of that other world; I've +not had enough of this. You'll come with me to King's House to-morrow?" +he added. + +To their quick assent he rejoined: "You'll never want to leave. You'll +stay on." + +To this Lawless replied, shaking his head: "I have a wife and child in +England." + +But Pierre did not reply. He lifted the bugle, mutely asking a question +of Adderley, who as mutely replied, and then, with it in his hand, left +the other two beside the fire. + +A few minutes later they heard, with three calls of the bugle from the +point afterwards, Pierre's voice: "John York, John York, where art thou +gone, John York?" + +Then came the reply: + +"King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy +bugles." + + + + +THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA + +Just at the point where the Peace River first hugs the vast outpost +hills of the Rockies, before it hurries timorously on, through an +unexplored region, to Fort St. John, there stood a hut. It faced the +west, and was built half-way up Clear Mountain. In winter it had snows +above it and below it; in summer it had snow above it and a very fair +stretch of trees and grass, while the river flowed on the same, winter +and summer. It was a lonely country. Travelling north, you would have +come to the Turnagain River; west, to the Frying Pan Mountains; south, +to a goodly land. But from the hut you had no outlook towards the south; +your eye came plump against a hard lofty hill, like a wall between +heaven and earth. It is strange, too, that, when you are in the far +north, you do not look towards the south until the north turns an iron +hand upon you and refuses the hospitality of food and fire; your eyes +are drawn towards the Pole by that charm--deadly and beautiful--for +which men have given up three points of the compass, with their +pleasures and ease, to seek a grave solitude, broken only by the beat +of a musk-ox's hoofs, the long breath of the caribou, or the wild cry of +the puma. + +Sir Duke Lawless had felt this charm, and had sworn that one day he +would again leave his home in Devon and his house in Pont Street, and, +finding Pierre, Shon M'Gann, and others of his old comrades, together +they would travel into those austere yet pleasant wilds. He kept his +word, found Shon M'Gann, and on an autumn day of a year not so long +ago lounged in this hut on Clear Mountain. They had had three months of +travel and sport, and were filled, but not sated, with the joy of the +hunter. They were very comfortable, for their host, Pourcette, the +French Canadian, had fire and meat in plenty, and, if silent, was +attentive to their comfort--a little, black-bearded, grey-headed man, +with heavy brows over small vigilant eyes, deft with his fingers, and an +excellent sportsman, as could be told from the skins heaped in all the +corners of the large hut. + +The skins were not those of mere foxes or martens or deer, but of +mountain lions and grizzlies. There were besides many soft, tiger-like +skins, which Sir Duke did not recognise. He kept looking at them, and at +last went over and examined one. + +"What's this, Monsieur Pourcette?" he said, feeling it as it lay on the +top of the pile. + +The little man pushed the log on the fireplace with his moccasined foot +before he replied: "Of a puma, m'sieu'." + +Sir Duke smoothed it with his hand. "I didn't know there were pumas +here." + +"Faith, Sir Duke--" + +Sir Duke Lawless turned on Shon quickly. "You're forgetting again, Shon. +There's no 'Sir Dukes' between us. What you were to me years ago on +the wally-by-track and the buffalo-trail, you are now, and I'm the same +also: M'Gann and Lawless, and no other." + +"Well, then, Lawless, it's true enough as he says it, for I've seen more +than wan skin brought in, though I niver clapped eye on the beast alive. +There's few men go huntin' them av their own free will, not more than +they do grizzlies; but, bedad, this French gintleman has either the luck +o' the world, or the gift o' that man ye tould me of, that slew the +wild boars in anciency. Look at that, now: there's thirty or forty +puma-skins, and I'd take my oath there isn't another man in the country +that's shot half that in his lifetime." + +Pourcette's eyes were on the skins, not on the men, and he did not +appear to listen. He sat leaning forward, with a strange look on his +face. Presently he got up, came over, and stroked the skins softly. A +queer chuckling noise came from his throat. + +"It was good sport?" asked Lawless, feeling a new interest in him. + +"The grandest sport--but it is not so easy," answered the old man. "The +grizzly comes on you bold and strong; you know your danger right away, +and have it out. So. But the puma comes--God, how the puma comes!" He +broke off, his eyes burning bright under his bushy brows and his body +arranging itself into an attitude of expectation and alertness. + +"You have travelled far. The sun goes down. You build a fire and cook +your meat, and then good tea and the tabac. It is ver' fine. You hear +the loon crying on the water, or the last whistle of the heron up +the pass. The lights in the sky come out and shine through a thin +mist--there is nothing like that mist, it is so fine and soft. Allons. +You are sleepy. You bless the good God. You stretch pine branches, wrap +in your blanket, and lie down to sleep. If it is winter and you have a +friend, you lie close. It is all quiet. As you sleep, something comes. +It slides along the ground on its belly, like a snake. It is a pity +if you have not ears that feel--the whole body as ears. For there is a +swift lunge, a snarl--ah, you should hear it! the thing has you by the +throat, and there is an end!" + +The old man had acted all the scenes: a sidelong glance, a little +gesture, a movement of the body, a quick, harsh breath--without emphatic +excitement, yet with a reality and force that fascinated his two +listeners. When he paused, Shon let go a long breath, and Lawless looked +with keen inquiry at their entertainer. This almost unnatural, yet +quiet, intensity had behind it something besides the mere spirit of +the sportsman. Such exhibitions of feeling generally have an unusual +personal interest to give them point and meaning. + +"Yes, that's wonderful, Pourcette," he said; "but that's when the puma +has things its own way. How is it when these come off?" He stroked the +soft furs under his hand. + +The man laughed, yet without a sound--the inward, stealthy laugh, as +from a knowledge wicked in its very suggestiveness. His eyes ran from +Lawless to Shon, and back again. He put his hand on his mouth, as though +for silence, stole noiselessly over to the wall, took down his gun +quietly, and turned round. Then he spoke softly: + +"To kill the puma, you must watch--always watch. You will see his yellow +eyes sometimes in a tree: you must be ready before he springs. You will +hear his breath at night as you pretend to sleep, and you wait till you +see his foot steal out of the shadow--then you have him. From a mountain +wall you watch in the morning, and, when you see him, you follow, and +follow, and do not rest till you have found him. You must never miss +fire, for he has great strength and a mad tooth. But when you have got +him, he is worth all. You cannot eat the grizzly--he is too thick and +coarse; but the puma--well, you had him from the pot to-night. Was he +not good?" + +Lawless's brows ran up in surprise. Shon spoke quickly: + +"Heaven above!" he burst out. "Was it puma we had betune the teeth? +And what's puma but an almighty cat? Sure, though, it wint as tinder as +pullets, for all that--but I wish you hadn't tould us." + +The old man stood leaning on his gun, his chin on his hands, as they +covered the muzzle, his eyes fixed on something in his memory, the +vision of incidents he had lived or seen. + +Lawless went over to the fire and relit his pipe. Shon followed him. +They both watched Pourcette. "D'ye think he's mad?" asked Shon in a +whisper. Lawless shook his head: "Mad? No. But there's more in this +puma-hunting than appears. How long has he lived here, did he say?" + +"Four years; and, durin' that time, yours and mine are the only white +faces he has seen, except one." + +"Except one. Well, whose was the one? That might be interesting. Maybe +there's a story in that." + +"Faith, Lawless, there's a story worth the hearin', I'm thinkin', +to every white man in this country. For the three years I was in +the mounted police, I could count a story for all the days o' the +calendar--and not all o' them would make you happy to hear." + +Pourcette turned round to them. He seemed to be listening to Shon's +words. Going to the wall, he hung up the rifle; then he came to the fire +and stood holding out his hands to the blaze. He did not look in the +least mad, but like a man who was dominated by some one thought, more +or less weird. Short and slight, and a little bent, but more from +habit--the habit of listening and watching--than from age, his face +had a stern kind of earnestness and loneliness, and nothing at all of +insanity. + +Presently Lawless went to a corner and from his kit drew forth a flask. +The old man saw, and immediately brought out a wooden cup. There were +two on the shelf, and Shon pointed to the other. Pourcette took no +notice. Shon went over to get it, but Pourcette laid a hand on his arm: +"Not that." + +"For ornamint!" said Shon, laughing, and then his eyes were arrested by +a suit of buckskin and a cap of beaver, hanging on the wall. He turned +them over, and then suddenly drew back his hand, for he saw in the back +of the jacket a knife-slit. There was blood also on the buckskin. + +"Holy Mary!" he said, and retreated. Lawless had not noticed; he was +pouring out the liquor. He had handed the cup first to Pourcette, who +raised it towards a gun hung above the fireplace, and said something +under his breath. + +"A dramatic little fellow," thought Lawless; "the spirit of his +forefathers--a good deal of heart, a little of the poseur." + +Then hearing Shon's exclamation, he turned. + +"It's an ugly sight," said Shon, pointing to the jacket. They both +looked at Pourcette, expecting him to speak. The old man reached to the +coat, and, turning it so that the cut and the blood were hid, ran his +hand down it caressingly. "Ah, poor Jo! poor Jo Gordineer!" he said; +then he came over once more to the fire, sat down, and held out his +hands to the fire, shaking his head. + +"For God's sake, Lawless, give me a drink!" said Shon. Their eyes met, +and there was the same look in the faces of both. When Shon had drunk, +he said: "So, that's what's come to our old friend, Jo: dead--killed or +murdered--" + +"Don't speak so loud," said Lawless. "Let us get the story from him +first." + +Years before, when Shon M'Gann and Pierre and Lawless had sojourned in +the Pipi Valley, Jo Gordineer had been with them, as stupid and true a +man as ever drew in his buckle in a hungry land, or let it out to munch +corn and oil. When Lawless returned to find Shon and others of his +companions, he had asked for Gordineer. But not Shon nor anyone else +could tell aught of him; he had wandered north to outlying goldfields, +and then had disappeared completely. But there, as it would seem, his +coat and cap hung, and his rifle, dust-covered, kept guard over the +fire. + +Shon went over to the coat, did as Pourcette had done, and said: "Is it +gone y'are, Jo, wid your slow tongue and your big heart? Wan by wan the +lads are off." + +Pourcette, without any warning, began speaking, but in a very quiet tone +at first, as if unconscious of the others: + +"Poor Jo Gordineer! Yes, he is gone. He was my friend--so tall, and such +a hunter! We were at the Ding Dong goldfields together. When luck went +bad, I said to him: 'Come, we will go where there is plenty of wild +meat, and a summer more beautiful than in the south.' I did not want to +part from him, for once, when some miner stole my claim, and I fought, +he stood by me. But in some things he was a little child. That was from +his big heart. Well, he would go, he said; and we came away." + +He suddenly became silent; and shook his head, and spoke under his +breath. + +"Yes," said Lawless quietly, "you went away. What then?" + +He looked up quickly, as though just aware of their presence, and +continued: + +"Well, the other followed, as I said, and--" + +"No, Pourcette," interposed Lawless, "you didn't say. Who was the other +that followed?" + +The old man looked at him gravely, and a little severely, and continued: + +"As I said, Gawdor followed--he and an Indian. Gawdor thought we were +going for gold, because I had said I knew a place in the north where +there was gold in a river--I know the place, but that is no matter. We +did not go for gold just then. Gawdor hated Jo Gordineer. There was +a half-breed girl. She was fine to look at. She would have gone to +Gordineer if he had beckoned, any time; but he waited--he was very slow, +except with his finger on a gun; he waited too long. + +"Gawdor was mad for the girl. He knew why her feet came slow to the +door when he knocked. He would have quarrelled with Jo, if he had dared; +Gordineer was too quick a shot. He would have killed him from behind; +but it was known in the camp that he was no friend of Gordineer, and it +was not safe." + +Again Pourcette was silent. Lawless put on his knee a new pipe, filled +with tobacco. The little man took it, lighted it, and smoked on in +silence for a time undisturbed. Shon broke the silence, by a whisper to +Lawless: + +"Jo was a quiet man, as patient as a priest; but when his blood came up, +there was trouble in the land. Do you remimber whin--" + +Lawless interrupted him and motioned towards Pourcette. The old man, +after a few puffs, held the pipe on his knee, disregarding it. Lawless +silently offered him some more whisky, but he shook his head. Presently, +he again took up the thread: + +"Bien, we travelled slow up through the smoky river country, and beyond +into a wild land. We had bully sport as we went. Sometimes I heard +shots far away behind us; but Gordineer said it was my guess, for we saw +nobody. But I had a feeling. Never mind. At last we come to the Peace +River. It was in the early autumn like this, when the land is full of +comfort. What is there like it? Nothing. The mountains have colours like +a girl's eyes; the smell of the trees is sweet like a child's breath, +and the grass feels for the foot and lifts it with a little soft spring. +We said we could live here for ever. We built this house high up, as you +see, first, because it is good to live high--it puts life in the blood; +and, as Gordineer said, it is noble to look far over the world, every +time your house-door is open, or the parchment is down from the window. +We killed wapiti and caribou without number, and cached them for +our food. We caught fish in the river, and made tea out of the brown +berry--it is very good. We had flour, a little, which we had brought +with us, and I went to Fort St. John and got more. Since then, down in +the valley, I have wheat every summer; for the Chinook winds blow across +the mountains and soften the bitter cold. + +"Well, for that journey to Fort St. John. When I got back I found Gawdor +with Gordineer. He said he had come north to hunt. His Indian had left, +and he had lost his way. Gordineer believed him. He never lied himself. +I said nothing, but watched. After a time he asked where the gold-field +was. I told him, and he started away--it was about fifty miles to the +north. He went, and on his way back he come here. He say he could not +find the place, and was going south. I know he lied. At this time I saw +that Gordineer was changed. He was slow in the head, and so, when he +began thinking up here, it made him lonely. It is always in a fine land +like this, where game is plenty, and the heart dances for joy in your +throat, and you sit by the fire--that you think of some woman who would +be glad to draw in and tie the strings of the tent-curtain, or fasten +the latch of the door upon you two alone." + +Perhaps some memory stirred within the old man, other than that of his +dead comrade, for he sighed, muffled his mouth in his beard, and then +smiled in a distant way at the fire. The pure truth of what he said came +home to Shon M'Gann and Sir Duke Lawless; for both, in days gone by, +had sat at camp-fires in silent plains, and thought upon women from whom +they believed they were parted for ever, yet who were only kept from +them for a time, to give them happier days. They were thinking of these +two women now. They scarcely knew how long they sat there thinking. Time +passes swiftly when thoughts are cheerful, or are only tinged with the +soft melancholy of a brief separation. Memory is man's greatest friend +and worst enemy. + +At last the old man continued: "I saw the thing grew on him. He was not +sulky, but he stare much in the fire at night. In the daytime he was +differen'. A hunter thinks only of his sport. Gawdor watched him. +Gordineer's hand was steady; his nerve was all right. I have seen him +stand still till a grizzly come within twice the length of his gun. Then +he would twist his mouth, and fire into the mortal spot. Once we were +out in the Wide Wing pass. We had never had such a day. Gordineer make +grand shots, better than my own; and men have said I can shoot like +the devil--ha! ha!" He chuckled to himself noiselessly, and said in a +whisper "Twenty grizzlies, and fifty pumas!" + +Then he rubbed his hands softly on his knees, and spoke aloud again: +"Ici, I was proud of him. We were standing together on a ledge of rock. +Gawdor was not far away. Gawdor was a poor hunter, and I knew he was +wild at Gordineer's great luck.... A splendid bull-wapiti come out on +a rock across the gully. It was a long shot. I did not think Gordineer +could make it; I was not sure that I could--the wind was blowing and the +range was long. But he draw up his gun like lightning, and fire all at +once. The bull dropped clean over the cliff, and tumbled dead upon the +rocks below. It was fine. But, then, Gordineer slung his gun under his +arm, and say: 'That is enough. I am going to the hut.' + +"He went away. That night he did not talk. The next morning, when I say, +'We will be off again to the pass,' he shake his head. He would not go. +He would shoot no more, he said. I understood: it was the girl. He was +wide awake at last. Gawdor understanded also. He know that Gordineer +would go to the south--to her. + +"I was sorry; but it was no use. Gawdor went with me to the pass. When +we come back, Jo was gone. On a bit of birch-bark he had put where he +was going, and the way he would take. He said he would come back to +me--ah, the brave comrade! Gawdor say nothing, but his looks were black. +I had a feeling. I sat up all night, smoking. I was not afraid, but I +know Gawdor had found the valley of gold, and he might put a knife in +me, because to know of such a thing alone is fine. Just at dawn, he got +up and go out. He did not come back. + +"I waited, and at last went to the pass. In the afternoon, just as I +was rounding the corner of a cliff, there was a shot--then another. The +first went by my head; the second caught me along the ribs, but not to +great hurt. Still, I fell from the shock, and lost some blood. It was +Gawdor; he thought he had killed me. + +"When I come to myself I bound up the little furrow in the flesh, and +start away. I know that Gawdor would follow Gordineer. I follow him, +knowing the way he must take. I have never forget the next night. I +had to travel hard, and I track him by his fires and other things. When +sunset come, I do not stop. I was in a valley, and I push on. There was +a little moon. At last I saw a light ahead-a camp-fire, I know. I was +weak, and could have dropped; but a dread was on me. + +"I come to the fire. I saw a man lying near it. Just as I saw him, +he was trying to rise. But, as he did so, something sprang out of the +shadow upon him, at his throat. I saw him raise his hand, and strike it +with a knife. The thing let go, and then I fire--but only scratched, I +think. It was a puma. It sprang away again, into the darkness. I ran to +the man, and raised him. It was my friend. He looked up at me and shake +his head. He was torn at the throat.... But there was something else--a +wound in the back. He was stooping over the fire when he was stabbed, +and he fell. He saw that it was Gawdor. He had been left for dead, as +I was. Nom de Dieu! just when I come and could have save him, the puma +come also. It is the best men who have such luck. I have seen it often. +I used to wonder they did not curse God." + +He crossed himself and mumbled something. Lawless rose, and walked up +and down the room once or twice, pulling at his beard and frowning. His +eyes were wet. Shon kept blowing into his closed hand and blinking at +the fire. Pourcette got up and took down the gun from the chimney. He +brushed off the dust with his coat-sleeve, and fondled it, shaking his +head at it a little. As he began to speak again, Lawless sat down. + +"Now I know why they do not curse. Something curses for them. Jo give me +a word for her, and say 'Well, it is all right; but I wish I had killed +the puma.' There was nothing more.... I followed Gawdor for days. I know +that he would go and get someone, and go back to the gold. I thought at +last I had missed him; but no. I had made up my mind what to do when +I found him. One night, just as the moon was showing over the hills, I +come upon him. I was quiet as a puma. I have a stout cord in my pocket, +and another about my body. Just as he was stooping over the fire, as +Gordineer did, I sprang upon him, clasping him about the neck, and +bringing him to the ground. He could not get me off. I am small, but I +have a grip. Then, too, I had one hand at his throat. It was no use to +struggle. The cord and a knife were in my teeth. It was a great trick, +but his breath was well gone, and I fastened his hands. It was no use +to struggle. I tied his feet and legs. Then I carried him to a tree and +bound him tight. I unfastened his hands again and tied them round the +tree. Then I built a great fire not far away. He begged at first and +cried. But I was hard. He got wild, and at last when I leave him he +cursed! It was like nothing I ever heard. He was a devil... I come back +after I have carry the message to the poor girl--it is a sad thing to +see the first great grief of the young! Gawdor was not there. The pumas +and others had been with him. + +"There was more to do. I wanted to kill that puma which set its teeth +in the throat of my friend. I hunted the woods where it had happened, +beating everywhere, thinking that, perhaps, it was dead. There was not +much blood on the leaves, so I guessed that it had not died. I hunted +from that spot, and killed many--many. I saw that they began to move +north. At last I got back here. From here I have hunted and killed them +slow; but never that one with a wound in the shoulder from Jo's knife. +Still, I can wait. There is nothing like patience for the hunter and for +the man who would have blood for blood." + +He paused, and Lawless spoke. "And when you have killed that puma, +Pourcette--if you ever do-what then?" + +Pourcette fondled the gun, then rose and hung it up again before he +replied. + +"Then I will go to Fort St. John, to the girl--she is there with her +father--and sell all the skins to the factor, and give her the money." +He waved his hand round the room. "There are many skins here, but I have +more cached not far away. Once a year I go to the Fort for flour and +bullets. A dog-team and a bois-brule bring them, and then I am alone as +before. When all that is done I will come back." + +"And then, Pourcette?" said Shon. + +"Then I will hang that one skin over the chimney where his gun is--and +go out and kill more pumas. What else can one do? When I stop killing I +shall be killed. A million pumas and their skins are not worth the life +of my friend." + +Lawless looked round the room, at the wooden cup, the gun, the +bloodstained clothes on the wall, and the skins. He got up, came over, +and touched Pourcette on the shoulder. + +"Little man," he said, "give it up, and come with me. Come to Fort St. +John, sell the skins, give the money to the girl, and then let us travel +to the Barren Grounds together, and from there to the south country +again. You will go mad up here. You have killed enough--Gawdor and many +pumas. If Jo could speak, he would say, Give it up. I knew Jo. He was my +good friend before he was yours--mine and M'Gann's here--and we searched +for him to travel with us. He would have done so, I think, for we had +sport and trouble of one kind and another together. And he would have +asked you to come also. Well, do so, little man. We haven't told you our +names. I am Sir Duke Lawless, and this is Shon M'Gann." + +Pourcette nodded: "I do not know how it come to me, but I was sure +from the first you are his friends. He speak often of you and of two +others--where are they?" + +Lawless replied, and, at the name of Pretty Pierre, Shon hid his +forehead in his hand, in a troubled way. "And you will come with us," +said Lawless, "away from this loneliness?" + +"It is not lonely," was the reply. "To hear the thrum of the pigeon, the +whistle of the hawk, the chatter of the black squirrel, and the long cry +of the eagle, is not lonely. Then, there is the river and the pines--all +music; and for what the eye sees, God has been good; and to kill pumas +is my joy.... So, I cannot go. These hills are mine. Few strangers come, +and none stop but me. Still, to-morrow or any day, I will show you the +way to the valley where the gold is. Perhaps riches is there, perhaps +not, you shall find." + +Lawless saw that it was no use to press the matter. The old man had but +one idea, and nothing could ever change it. Solitude fixes our hearts +immovably on things--call it madness, what you will. In busy life we +have no real or lasting dreams, no ideals. We have to go to the primeval +hills and the wild plains for them. When we leave the hills and the +plains, we lose them again. Shon was, however, for the valley of gold. +He was a poor man, and it would be a joyful thing for him if one day he +could empty ample gold into his wife's lap. Lawless was not greedy, but +he and good gold were not at variance. + +"See," said Shon, "the valley's the thing. We can hunt as we go, and if +there's gold for the scrapin', why, there y'are--fill up and come again. +If not, divil the harm done. So here's thumbs up to go, say I. But I +wish, Lawless, I wish that I'd niver known how Jo wint off, an' I wish +we were all t'gither agin, as down in the Pipi Valley." + +"There's nothing stands in this world, Shon, but the faith of comrades +and the truth of good women. The rest hangs by a hair. I'll go to the +valley with you. It's many a day since I washed my luck in a gold-pan." + +"I will take you there," said Pourcette, suddenly rising, and, with +shy abrupt motions grasping their hands and immediately letting them go +again. "I will take you to-morrow." Then he spread skins upon the floor, +put wood upon the fire, and the three were soon asleep. + +The next morning, just as the sun came laboriously over the white peak +of a mountain, and looked down into the great gulch beneath the hut, the +three started. For many hours they crept along the side of the mountain, +then came slowly down upon pine-crested hills, and over to where a small +plain stretched out. It was Pourcette's little farm. Its position was +such that it caught the sun always, and was protected from the north and +east winds. Tall shafts of Indian corn with their yellow tassels were +still standing, and the stubble of the field where the sickle had been +showed in the distance like a carpet of gold. It seemed strange to +Lawless that this old man beside him should be thus peaceful in his +habits, the most primitive and arcadian of farmers, and yet one +whose trade was blood--whose one purpose in life was destruction and +vengeance. + +They pushed on. Towards the end of the day they came upon a little herd +of caribou, and had excellent sport. Lawless noticed that Pourcette +seemed scarcely to take any aim at all, so swift and decisive was his +handling of the gun. They skinned the deer and cached them, and took up +the journey again. For four days they travelled and hunted alternately. +Pourcette had shot two mountain lions, but they had seen no pumas. + +On the morning of the fifth day they came upon the valley where the gold +was. There was no doubt about it. A beautiful little stream ran through +it, and its bed was sprinkled with gold--a goodly sight to a poor man +like Shon, interesting enough to Lawless. For days, while Lawless and +Pourcette hunted, Shon laboured like a galley-slave, making the little +specks into piles, and now and again crowning a pile with a nugget. The +fever of the hunter had passed from him, and another fever was on him. +The others urged him to come away. The winter would soon be hard on +them; he must go, and he and Lawless would return in the spring. + +Prevailing on him at last, they started back to Clear Mountain. The +first day Shon was abstracted. He carried the gold he had gathered in +a bag wound about his body. It was heavy, and he could not travel fast. +One morning, Pourcette, who had been off in the hills, came to say that +he had sighted a little herd of wapiti. Shon had fallen and sprained his +arm the evening before (gold is heavy to carry), and he did not go with +the others. He stayed and dreamed of his good fortune, and of his home. +In the late afternoon he lay down in the sun beside the camp-fire +and fell asleep from much thinking. Lawless and Pourcette had little +success. The herd had gone before they arrived. They beat the hills, +and turned back to camp at last, without fret, like good sportsmen. At a +point they separated, to come down upon the camp at different angles, in +the hope of still getting a shot. The camp lay exposed upon a platform +of the mountain. + +Lawless came out upon a ledge of rock opposite the camp, a gulch lying +between. He looked across. He was in the shadow, the other wall of the +gulch was in the sun. The air was incomparably clear and fresh, with an +autumnal freshness. Everything stood out distinct and sharply outlined, +nothing flat or blurred. He saw the camp, and the fire, with the smoke +quivering up in a diffusing blue column, Shon lying beside it. He leaned +upon his rifle musingly. The shadows of the pines were blue and +cold, but the tops of them were burnished with the cordial sun, and +a glacier-field, somehow, took on a rose and violet light, reflected, +maybe, from the soft-complexioned sky. He drew in a long breath of +delight, and widened his line of vision. + +Suddenly, something he saw made him lurch backward. At an angle in +almost equal distance from him and Shon, upon a small peninsula of rock, +a strange thing was happening. Old Pourcette was kneeling, engaged with +his moccasin. Behind him was the sun, against which he was abruptly +defined, looking larger than usual. Clear space and air soft with colour +were about him. Across this space, on a little sloping plateau near him, +there crept an animal. It seemed to Lawless that he could see the lithe +stealthiness of its muscles and the ripple of its skin. But that was +imagination, because he was too far away. He cried out, and swung his +gun shoulderwards in desperation. But, at the moment, Pourcette turned +sharply round, saw his danger, caught his gun, and fired as the puma +sprang. There had been no chance for aim, and the beast was only +wounded. It dropped upon the man. He let the gun fall; it rolled +and fell over the cliff. Then came a scene, wicked in its peril to +Pourcette, for whom no aid could come, though two men stood watching the +great fight--Shon M'Gann, awake now, and Lawless--with their guns silent +in their hands. They dare not fire, for fear of injuring the man, and +they could not reach him in time to be of help. + +There against the weird solitary sky the man and the puma fought. When +the animal dropped on him, Pourcette caught it by the throat with both +hands, and held back its fangs; but its claws were furrowing the flesh +of his breast and legs. His long arms were of immense strength, and +though the pain of his torn flesh was great he struggled grandly with +the beast, and bore it away, from his body. As he did so he slightly +changed the position of one hand. It came upon a welt-a scar. When he +felt that, new courage and strength seemed given him. He gave a low +growl like an animal, and then, letting go one hand, caught at the knife +in his belt. As he did so the puma sprang away from him, and crouched +upon the rock, making ready for another leap. Lawless and Shon could see +its tail curving and beating. But now, to their astonishment, the man +was the aggressor. He was filled with a fury which knows nothing of +fear. The welt his fingers had felt burned them. + +He came slowly upon the puma. Lawless could see the hard glitter of his +knife. The puma's teeth sawed together, its claws picked at the rocks, +its body curved for a spring. The man sprang first, and ran the knife +in; but not into a mortal corner. Once more they locked. The man's +fingers were again at the puma's throat, and they swayed together, the +claws of the beast making surface havoc. But now as they stood up, to +the eyes of the fearful watchers inextricably mixed, the man lunged +again with his knife, and this time straight into the heart of the +murderer. The puma loosened, quivered, fell back dead. The man rose to +his feet with a cry, and his hands stretched above his head, as it were +in a kind of ecstasy. Shon forgot his gold and ran; Lawless hurried +also. + +When the two men got to the spot they found Pourcette binding up his +wounds. He came to his feet, heedless of his hurts, and grasped their +hands. "Come, come, my friends, and see," he cried. + +He pulled forward the loose skin on the puma's breast and showed them +the scar of a knife-wound above the one his own knife had made. + +"I've got the other murderer," he said; "Gordineer's knife went in here. +Sacre, but it is good!" + +Pourcette's flesh needed little medicine; he did not feel his pain and +stiffness. When they reached Clear Mountain, bringing with them the skin +which was to hang above the fireplace, Pourcette prepared to go to Fort +St. John, as he had said he would, to sell all the skins and give the +proceeds to the girl. + +"When that's done," said Lawless, "you will have no reason for staying +here. If you will come with us after, we will go to the Fort with you. +We three will then come back in the spring to the valley of gold for +sport and riches." + +He spoke lightly, yet seriously too. The old man shook his head. "I have +thought," he said. "I cannot go to the south. I am a hunter now, nothing +more. I have been long alone; I do not wish for change. I shall remain +at Clear Mountain when these skins have gone to Fort St. John, and if +you come to me in the spring or at any time, my door will open to you, +and I will share all with you. Gordineer was a good man. You are good +men. I'll remember you, but I can't go with you--no. + +"Some day you would leave me to go to the women who wait for you, and +then I should be alone again. I will not change--vraiment!" + +On the morning they left, he took Jo Gordineer's cup from the shelf, +and from a hidden place brought out a flask half filled with liquor. He +poured out a little in the cup gravely, and handed it to Lawless, but +Lawless gave it back to him. + +"You must drink from it," he said, "not me." + +He held out the cup of his own flask. When each of the three had a +share, the old man raised his long arm solemnly, and said in a tone so +gentle that the others hardly recognised his voice: "To a lost comrade!" +They drank in silence. + +"A little gentleman!" said Lawless, under his breath. When they were +ready to start, Lawless said to him at the last: "What will you do here, +comrade, as the days go on?" + +"There are pumas in the mountains," he replied. They parted from him +upon the ledge where the great fight had occurred, and travelled into +the east. Turning many times, they saw him still standing there. At a +point where they must lose sight of him, they looked for the last time. +He was alone with his solitary hills, leaning on his rifle. They fired +two shots into the air. They saw him raise his rifle, and two faint +reports came in reply. He became again immovable: as much a part of +those hills as the shining glacier; never to leave them. + +In silence the two rounded the cliff, and saw him no more. + + + + +THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS + +"Swell, you see," said Jacques Parfaite, as he gave Whiskey Wine, the +leading dog, a cut with the whip and twisted his patois to the uses of +narrative, "he has been alone there at the old Fort for a long time. +I remember when I first see him. It was in the summer. The world smell +sweet if you looked this way or that. If you drew in your breath quick +from the top of a hill you felt a great man. Ridley, the chief trader, +and myself have come to the Fort on our way to the Mackenzie River. In +the yard of the Fort the grass have grown tall, and sprung in the cracks +under the doors and windows; the Fort have not been use for a long time. +Once there was plenty of buffalo near, and the caribou sometimes; but +they were all gone--only a few. The Indians never went that way, only +when the seasons were the best. The Company have close the Post; it did +not pay. Still, it was pleasant after a long tramp to come to even an +empty fort. We know dam' well there is food buried in the yard or under +the floor, and it would be droll to open the place for a day--Lost Man's +Tavern, we called it. Well--" + +"Well, what?" said Sir Duke Lawless, who had travelled up to the Barren +Grounds for the sake of adventure and game; and, with his old friend, +Shon M'Gann, had trusted himself to the excellent care of Jacques +Parfaite, the half-breed. + +Jacques cocked his head on one side and shook it wisely and +mysteriously. "Tres bien, we trailed through the long grass, pried +open the shutters and door, and went in. It is cool in the north of +an evening, as you know. We build a fire, and soon there is very fine +times. Ridley pried up the floor, and we found good things. Holy! but it +was a feast. We had a little rum also. As we talk and a great laugh swim +round, there come a noise behind us like shuffling feet. We got to our +legs quick. Mon Dieu, a strange sight! A man stand looking at us +with something in his face that make my fingers cold all at once--a +look--well you would think it was carved in stone--it never change. +Once I was at Fort Garry; the Church of St. Mary is there. They have a +picture in it of the great scoundrel Judas as he went to hang himself. +Judas was a fool--what was thirty dollars!--you give me hunder' to take +you to the Barren Grounds. Pah!" + +The half-breed chuckled, shook his head sagely, swore half-way through +his vocabulary at Whiskey Wine, gratefully received a pipe of tobacco +from Shon M'Gann, and continued: "He come in on us slow and still, and +push out long thin hands, the fingers bent like claws, towards the pot. +He was starving. Yes, it was so; but I nearly laugh. It was spring--a +man is a fool to starve in the spring. But he was differen'. There was +a cause. The factor give him soup from the pot and a little rum. He was +mad for meat, but that would have kill him--yes. He did not look at you +like a man. + +"When you are starving, you are an animal. But there was something more +with this.--He made the flesh creep, he was so thin, and strange, and +sulky--eh, is that a word when the face looks dark and never smiles? So. +He would not talk. When we ask him where he come from, he points to the +north; when we ask him where he is going, he shake his head as he not +know. A man is mad not to know where he travel to up here; something +comes quick to him unless, and it is not good to die too soon. The +trader said, 'Come with us.' He shake his head, No. 'P'r'aps you want to +stay here,' said Ridley loud, showing his teeth all in a minute. He nod. +Then the trader laugh thick in his throat and give him more soup. After, +he try to make the man talk; but he was stubborn like that dirty Whiskey +Wine--ah, sacre bleu!" + +Whiskey Wine had his usual portion of whip and anathema before Jacques +again took up the thread. "It was no use. He would not talk. When the +trader get angry once more, he turned to me, and the look in his face +make me sorry. I swore--Ridley did not mind that, I was thick friends +with him. I say, 'Keep still. It is no good. He has had bad times. He +has been lost, and seen mad things. He will never be again like when God +make him.' Very well, I spoke true. He was like a sun dog." + +"What's that ye say, Parfaite?" said Shon--"a sun dog?" + +Sir Duke Lawless, puzzled, listened eagerly for the reply. + +The half-breed in delight ran before them, cracking his whip and +jingling the bells at his knees. "Ah, that's it! It is a name we have +for some. You do not know? It is easy. In the high-up country"--pointing +north"--you see sometimes many suns. But it is not many after all; +it is only one; and the rest are the same as your face in +looking-glasses--one, two, three, plenty. You see?" + +"Yes," said Sir Duke, "reflections of the real sun." Parfaite tapped him +on the arm. "So: you have the thing. Well, this man is not himself--he +have left himself where he seen his bad times. It makes your flesh creep +sometimes when you see the sun dogs in the sky--this man did the same. +You shall see him tonight." + +Sir Duke looked at the little half-breed, and wondered that the product +of so crude a civilisation should be so little crude in his imagination. +"What happened?" he asked. + +"Nothing happened. But the man could not sleep. He sit before the fire, +his eyes moving here and there, and sometimes he shiver. Well, I watch +him. In the morning we leave him there, and he has been there ever +since--the only man at the Fort. The Indians do not go; they fear him; +but there is no harm in him. He is old now. In an hour we'll be there." + +The sun was hanging, with one shoulder up like a great red peering +dwarf, on the far side of a long hillock of stunted pines, when the +three arrived at the Fort. The yard was still as Parfaite had described +it--full of rank grass, through which one path trailed to the open door. +On the stockade walls grass grew, as though where men will not live like +men Nature labours to smother. The shutters of the window were not open; +light only entered through narrow openings in them, made for the needs +of possible attacks by Indians in the far past. One would have sworn +that anyone dwelling there was more like the dead than the living. Yet +it had, too, something of the peace of the lonely graveyard. There was +no one in the Fort; but there were signs of life--skins piled here +and there, a few utensils, a bench, a hammock for food swung from the +rafters, a low fire burning in the chimney, and a rude spear stretched +on the wall. + +"Sure, the place gives you shivers!" said Shon. "Open go these windows. +Put wood on the fire, Parfaite; cook the meat that we've brought, and +no other, me boy; and whin we're filled wid a meal and the love o' God, +bring in your Lost Man, or Sun Dog, or whativer's he by name or nature." + +While Parfaite and Shon busied themselves, Lawless wandered out with his +gun, and, drawn on by the clear joyous air of the evening, walked along +a path made by the same feet that had travelled the yard of the Fort. +He followed it almost unconsciously at first, thinking of the strange +histories that the far north hoards in its fastnesses, wondering what +singular fate had driven the host of this secluded tavern--farthest from +the pleasant south country, nearest to the Pole--to stand, as it were, +a sentinel at the raw outposts of the world. He looked down at the trail +where he was walking with a kind of awe, which even his cheerful common +sense could not dismiss. + +He came to the top of a ridge on which were a handful of meagre trees. +Leaning on his gun, he looked straight away into the farthest distance. +On the left was a blurred edge of pines, with tops like ungainly +tendrils feeling for the sky. On the right was a long bare stretch of +hills veiled in the thin smoke of the evening, and between, straight +before him, was a wide lane of unknown country, billowing away to where +it froze into the vast archipelago that closes with the summit of the +world. He experienced now that weird charm which has drawn so many into +Arctic wilds and gathered the eyes of millions longingly. Wife, child, +London, civilisation, were forgotten for the moment. He was under a +spell which, once felt, lingers in your veins always. + +At length his look drew away from the glimmering distance, and he +suddenly became conscious of human presence. Here, almost at his feet, +was a man, also looking out along that slumbering waste. He was dressed +in skins, his arms were folded across his breast, his chin bent low, and +he gazed up and out from deep eyes shadowed by strong brows. Lawless saw +the shoulders of the watcher heave and shake once or twice, and then +a voice with a deep aching trouble in it spoke; but at first he could +catch no words. Presently, however, he heard distinctly, for the man +raised his hands high above his head, and the words fell painfully: "Am +I my brother's keeper?" + +Then a low harsh laugh came from him, and he was silent again. Lawless +did not move. At last the man turned round, and, seeing him standing +motionless, his gun in his hands, he gave a hoarse cry. Then he stood +still. "If you have come to kill, do not wait," he said; "I am ready." + +At the sound of Lawless's reassuring voice he recovered, and began, in +stumbling words, to excuse himself. His face was as Jacques Parfaite +had described it: trouble of some terrible kind was furrowed in it, and, +though his body was stalwart, he looked as if he had lived a century. +His eyes dwelt on Sir Duke Lawless for a moment, and then, coming +nearer, he said, "You are an Englishman?" + +Lawless held out his hand in greeting, yet he was not sorry when the +other replied: "The hand of no man in greeting. Are you alone?" + +When he had been told, he turned towards the Fort, and silently they +made their way to it. At the door he turned and said to Lawless, "My +name--to you--is Detmold." + +The greeting between Jacques and his sombre host was notable for +its extreme brevity; with Shon McGann for its hesitation--Shon's +impressionable Irish nature was awed by the look of the man, though he +had seen some strange things in the north. Darkness was on them by this +time, and the host lighted bowls of fat with wicks of deer's tendons, +and by the light of these and the fire they ate their supper. Parfaite +beguiled the evening with tales of the north, always interesting to +Lawless; to which Shon added many a shrewd word of humour--for he +had recovered quickly from his first timidity in the presence of the +stranger. + +As time went on Jacques saw that their host's eyes were frequently fixed +on Sir Duke in a half-eager, musing way, and he got Shon away to bed and +left the two together. + +"You are a singular man. Why do you live here?" said Lawless. Then he +went straight to the heart of the thing. "What trouble have you had, of +what crime are you guilty?" + +The man rose to his feet, shaking, and walked to and fro in the room +for a time, more than once trying to speak, but failing. He beckoned +to Lawless, and opened the door. Lawless took his hat and followed him +along the trail they had travelled before supper until they came to the +ridge where they had met. The man faced the north, the moon glistening +coldly on his grey hair. He spoke with incredible weight and slowness: + +"I tell you--for you are one who understands men, and you come from +a life that I once knew well. I know of your people. I was of good +family--" + +"I know the name," said Sir Duke quietly, at the same time fumbling +in his memory for flying bits of gossip and history which he could not +instantly find. + +"There were two brothers of us. I was the younger. A ship was going +to the Arctic Sea." He pointed into the north. "We were both young and +ambitious. He was in the army, I the navy. We went with the expedition. +At first it was all beautiful and grand, and it seemed noble to search +for those others who had gone into that land and never come back. But +our ship got locked in the ice, and then came great trouble. A year went +by and we did not get free; then another year began.... Four of us set +out for the south. Two died. My brother and I were left--" + +Lawless exclaimed. He now remembered how general sympathy went out to a +well-known county family when it was announced that two of its members +were lost in the Arctic regions. + +Detmold continued: "I was the stronger. He grew weaker and weaker. It +was awful to live those days: the endless snow and cold, the long nights +when you could only hear the whirring of meteors, the bright sun which +did not warm you, nor even when many suns, the reflections of itself, +followed it--the mocking sun dogs, no more the sun than I am what my +mother brought into the world.... We walked like dumb men, for the +dreadful cold fills the heart with bitterness. I think I grew to hate +him because he could not travel faster, that days were lost, and death +crept on so pitilessly. Sometimes I had a mad wish to kill him. May you +never know suffering that begets such things! I laughed as I sat beside +him, and saw him sink to sleep and die.... I think I could have saved +him. When he was gone I--what do men do sometimes when starvation is +on them, and they have a hunger of hell to live? I did that shameless +thing--and he was my brother!... I lived, and was saved." + +Lawless shrank away from the man, but words of horror got no farther +than his throat. And he was glad afterwards that it was so; for when +he looked again at this woful relic of humanity before him he felt a +strange pity. + +"God's hand is on me to punish," said the man. "It will never be lifted. +Death were easy: I bear the infamy of living." + +Lawless reached out and caught him gently by the shoulders. "Poor +fellow! poor Detmold!" he said. For an instant the sorrowful face +lighted, the square chin trembled, and the hands thrust out towards +Lawless, but suddenly dropped. + +"Go," he said humbly, "and leave me here. We must not meet again... I +have had one moment of respite.... Go." + +Without a word, Lawless turned and made his way to the Fort. In the +morning the three comrades started on their journey again; but no one +sped them on their way or watched them as they went. + + + + +THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR + +He lived in a hut on a jutting crag of the Cliff of the King. You could +get to it by a hard climb up a precipitous pathway, or by a ladder +of ropes which swung from his cottage door down the cliff-side to the +sands. The bay that washed the sands was called Belle Amour. The cliff +was huge, sombre; it had a terrible granite moroseness. If you travelled +back from its edge until you stood within the very heart of Labrador, +you would add step upon step of barrenness and austerity. + +Only at seasons did the bay share the gloom of the cliff. When out +of its shadow it was, in summer, very bright and playful, sometimes +boisterous, often idle, coquetting with the sands. There was a great +difference between the cliff and the bay: the cliff was only as it +appeared, but the bay was a shameless hypocrite. For under one shoulder +it hid a range of reefs, and, at a spot where the shadows of the cliff +never reached it, and the sun played with a grim kind of joy, a long +needle of rock ran up at an angle under the water, waiting to pierce +irresistibly the adventurous ship that, in some mad moment, should creep +to its shores. + +The man was more like the cliff than the bay: stern, powerful, brooding. +His only companions were the Indians, who in summer-time came and went, +getting stores of him, which he in turn got from a post of the Hudson's +Bay Company, seventy miles up the coast. At one time the Company, +impressed by the number of skins brought to them by the pilot, and the +stores he bought of them, had thought of establishing a post at Belle +Amour; but they saw that his dealings with them were fair and that he +had small gain, and they decided to use him as an unofficial agent, and +reap what profit was to be had as things stood. Kenyon, the Company's +agent, who had the Post, was keen to know why Gaspard the pilot lived at +Belle Amour. No white man sojourned near him, and he saw no one save +now and then a priest who travelled silently among the Indians, or +some fisherman, hunter, or woodsman, who, for pleasure or from pure +adventure, ran into the bay and tasted the hospitality tucked away on a +ledge of the Cliff of the King. + +To Kenyon, Gaspard was unresponsive, however adroit the catechism. +Father Corraine also, who sometimes stepped across the dark threshold of +Gaspard's hut, would have, for the man's soul's sake, dug out the heart +of his secret; but Gaspard, open with food, fire, blanket, and tireless +attendance, closed like the doors of a dungeon when the priest would +have read him. At the name of good Ste. Anne he would make the sacred +gesture, and would take a blessing when the priest passed from his hut +to go again into the wilds; but when pressed to disclose his mind and +history, he would always say: "M'sieu', I have nothing to confess." +After a number of years the priest ceased to ask him, and he remained +with the secret of his life, inscrutable and silent. + +Being vigilant, one would have seen, however, that he lived in some +land of memory or anticipation, beyond his life of daily toil and usual +dealing. The hut seemed to have been built at a point where east and +west and south the great gulf could be seen and watched. It seemed +almost ludicrous that a man should call himself a pilot on a coast and +at a bay where a pilot was scarce needed once a year. But he was known +as Gaspard the pilot, and on those rare occasions when a vessel did +anchor in the bay, he performed his duties with such a certainty as to +leave unguessed how many deathtraps crouched near that shore. At such +times, however, Gaspard seemed to look twenty years younger. A light +would come into his face, a stalwart kind of pride sit on him, though +beneath there lurked a strange, sardonic look in his deep eyes--such a +grim furtiveness as though he should say: "If I but twist my finger we +are all for the fishes." But he kept his secret and waited. He never +seemed to tire of looking down the gulf, as though expecting some ship. +If one appeared and passed on, he merely nodded his head, hung up his +glass, returned to his work, or, sitting by the door, talked to himself +in low, strange tones. If one came near, making as if it would enter +the bay, a hungry joy possessed him. If a storm was on, the joy was the +greater. No pilot ever ventured to a ship on such rough seas as Gaspard +ventured for small profit or glory. + +Behind it all lay his secret. There came one day a man who discovered +it. + +It was Pierre, the half-breed adventurer. There was no point in all the +wild northland which Pierre had not touched. He loved it as he loved the +game of life. He never said so of it, but he never said so of the game +of life, and he played it with a deep subterranean joy. He had had his +way with the musk-ox in the Arctic Circle; with the white bear at the +foot of Alaskan Hills; with the seal in Baffin's Bay; with the puma on +the slope of the Pacific; and now at last he had come upon the trail of +Labrador. Its sternness, its moodiness pleased him. He smiled at it the +comprehending smile of the man who has fingered the nerves and the heart +of men and things. As a traveller, wandering through a prison, looks +upon its grim cells and dungeons with the eye of unembarrassed freedom, +finding no direful significance in the clank of its iron, so Pierre +travelled down with a handful of Indians through the hard fastnesses of +that country, and, at last, alone, came upon the bay of Belle Amour. + +There was in him some antique touch of refinement and temperament which, +in all his evil days and deeds and moments of shy nobility, could find +its way into the souls of men with whom the world had had an awkward +hour. He was a man of little speech, but he had that rare persuasive +penetration which unlocked the doors of trouble, despair, and tragedy. +Men who would never have confessed to a priest confessed to him. In +his every fibre was the granite of the Indian nature, which looked upon +punishment with stoic satisfaction. + +In the heart of Labrador he had heard of Gaspard, and had travelled to +that point in the compass where he could find him. One day when the sun +was fighting hard to make a pathway of light in front of Gaspard's +hut, Pierre rounded a corner of the cliff and fronted Gaspard as he sat +there, his eyes idling gloomily with the sea. They said little to each +other--in new lands hospitality has not need of speech. When Gaspard +and Pierre looked each other in the eyes they knew that one word between +them was as a hundred with other men. The heart knows its confessor, +and the confessor knows the shadowed eye that broods upon some ghostly +secret; and when these are face to face there comes a merciless +concision of understanding. + +"From where away?" said Gaspard, as he handed some tobacco to Pierre. + +"From Hudson's Bay, down the Red Wolf Plains, along the hills, across +the coast country, here." + +"Why?" Gaspard eyed Pierre's small kit with curiosity; then flung up a +piercing, furtive look. Pierre shrugged his shoulders. + +"Adventure, adventure," he answered. "The land"--he pointed north, west, +and east--"is all mine. I am the citizen of every village and every camp +of the great north." + +The old man turned his head towards a spot up the shore of Belle Amour, +before he turned to Pierre again, with a strange look, and said: "Where +do you go?" + +Pierre followed his gaze to that point in the shore, felt the +undercurrent of vague meaning in his voice, guessed what was his cue, +and said: "Somewhere, sometime; but now only Belle Amour. I have had +a long travel. I have found an open door. I will stay--if you +please--hein? If you please?" + +Gaspard brooded. "It is lonely," he replied. "This day it is all bright; +the sun shines and the little gay waves crinkle to the shore. But, mon +Dieu! sometimes it is all black and ugly with storm. The waves come +grinding, booming in along the gridiron rocks"--he smiled a grim +smile--"break through the teeth of the reefs, and split with a roar of +hell upon the cliff. And all the time, and all the time,"--his voice got +low with a kind of devilish joy,--"there is a finger--Jesu! you should +see that finger of the devil stretch up from the bowels of the earth, +waiting, waiting for something to come out of the storm. And then--and +then you can hear a wild laugh come out of the land, come up from the +sea, come down from the sky--all waiting, waiting for something! No, no, +you would not stay here." + +Pierre looked again to that point in the shore towards which Gaspard's +eyes had been cast. The sun was shining hard just then, and the stern, +sharp rocks, tumbling awkwardly back into the waste behind, had an +insolent harshness. Day perched garishly there. Yet now and then the +staring light was broken by sudden and deep shadows--great fissures in +the rocks and lanes between. These gave Pierre a suggestion, though why, +he could not say. He knew that when men live lives of patient, gloomy +vigilance, they generally have something to watch and guard. Why should +Gaspard remain here year after year? His occupation was nominally a +pilot in a bay rarely touched by vessels, and then only for shelter. A +pilot need not take his daily life with such brooding seriousness. +In body he was like flexible metal, all cord and muscle. He gave the +impression of bigness, though he was small in stature. Yet, as Pierre +studied him, he saw something that made him guess the man had had about +him one day a woman, perhaps a child; no man could carry that look +unless. If a woman has looked at you from day to day, something of her, +some reflection of her face, passes to yours and stays there; and if a +child has held your hand long, or hung about your knees, it gives you a +kind of gentle wariness as you step about your home. + +Pierre knew that a man will cherish with a deep, eternal purpose a +memory of a woman or a child, when, no matter how compelling his cue +to remember where a man is concerned, he will yield it up in the end to +time. Certain speculations arranged themselves definitely in Pierre's +mind: there was a woman, maybe a child once; there was some sorrowful +mystery about them; there was a point in the shore that had held the old +man's eyes strangely; there was the bay with that fantastic "finger of +the devil" stretching up from the bowels of the world. Behind the symbol +lay the Thing what was it? + +Long time he looked out upon the gulf, then his eyes drew into the bay +and stayed there, seeing mechanically, as a hundred fancies went through +his mind. There were reefs of which the old man had spoken. He could +guess from the colour and movement of the water where they were. The +finger of the devil--was it not real? A finger of rock, waiting as the +old man said--for what? + +Gaspard touched his shoulder. He rose and went with him into the gloomy +cabin. They ate and drank in silence. When the meal was finished they +sat smoking till night fell. Then the pilot lit a fire, and drew his +rough chair to the door. Though it was only late summer, it was cold +in the shade of the cliff. Long time they sat. Now and again Pierre +intercepted the quick, elusive glance of his silent host. Once the pilot +took the pipe from his mouth, and leaned his hands on his knees as if +about to speak. But he did not. + +Pierre saw that the time was ripe for speech. So he said, as though he +knew something: "It is a long time since it happened?" + +Gaspard, brooding, answered: "Yes, a long time--too long." Then, as if +suddenly awakened to the strangeness of the question, he added, in a +startled way: "What do you know? Tell me quick what you know." + +"I know nothing except what comes to me here, pilot,"--Pierre touched +his forehead, "but there is a thing--I am not sure what. There was a +woman--perhaps a child; there is something on the shore; there is a +hidden point of rock in the bay; and you are waiting for a ship--for the +ship, and it does not come--isn't that so?" + +Gaspard got to his feet, and peered into Pierre's immobile face. Their +eyes met. + +"Mon Dieu!" said the pilot, his hand catching the smoke away from +between them, "you are a droll man; you have a wonderful mind. You are +cold like ice, and still there is in you a look of fire." + +"Sit down," answered Pierre quietly, "and tell me all. Perhaps I could +think it out little by little; but it might take too long--and what is +the good?" + +Slowly Gaspard obeyed. Both hands rested on his knees, and he stared +abstractedly into the fire. Pierre thrust forward the tobacco-bag. +His hand lifted, took the tobacco, and then his eyes came keenly to +Pierre's. He was about to speak.... "Fill your pipe first," said the +half-breed coolly. The old man did so abstractedly. When the pipe was +lighted, Pierre said: "Now!" + +"I have never told the story, never--not even to Pere Corraine. But +I know, I have it here"--he put his hand to his forehead, as did +Pierre--"that you will be silent." Pierre nodded. + +"She was fine to see. Her eyes were black as beads; and when she laugh +it was all music. I was so happy! We lived on the island of the Aux +Coudres, far up there at Quebec. It was a wild place. There were +smugglers and others there--maybe pirates. But she was like a saint of +God among all. I was lucky man. I was pilot, and took ships out to sea, +and brought them in safe up the gulf. It is not all easy, for there are +mad places. Once or twice when a wild storm was on I could not land at +Cap Martin, and was carried out to sea and over to France.... Well, that +was not so bad; there was plenty to eat and drink, nothing to do. But +when I marry it was differen'. I was afraid of being carried away and +leave my wife--the belle Mamette--alone long time. You see, I was young, +and she was ver' beautiful." + +He paused and caught his hand over his mouth as though to stop a sound: +the lines of his face deepened. Presently he puffed his pipe so hard +that the smoke and the sparks hid him in a cloud through which he spoke. +"When the child was born--Holy Mother! have you ever felt the hand of +your own child in yours, and looked at the mother, as she lies there all +pale and shining between the quilts?" + +He paused. Pierre's eyes dropped to the floor. Gaspard continued: "Well, +it is a great thing, and the babe was born quick one day when we were +all alone. A thing like that gives you wonder. Then I could not bear to +go away with the ships, and at last I said: 'One month, and then the +ice fills the gulf, and there will be no more ships for the winter. +That will be the last for me. I will be pilot no more-no.' She was ver' +happy, and a laugh ran over her little white teeth. Mon Dieu, I stop +that laugh pretty quick--in fine way!" + +He seemed for an instant to forget his great trouble, and his face went +to warm sunshine like a boy's; but it was as sun playing on a scarred +fortress. Presently the light faded out of his face and left it like +iron smouldering from the bellows. + +"Well," he said, "you see there was a ship to go almost the last of the +season, and I said to my wife, 'Mamette, it is the last time I shall be +pilot. You must come with me and bring the child, and they will put us +off at Father Point, and then we will come back slow to the village on +the good Ste. Anne and live there ver' quiet.' When I say that to her +she laugh back at me and say, 'Beau! beau!' and she laugh in the child's +eyes, and speak--nom de Dieu! she speak so gentle and light--and say to +the child: 'Would you like go with your father a pretty journey down the +gulf?' And the little child laugh back at her, and shake its soft brown +hair over its head. They were both so glad to go. I went to the captain +of the ship. I say to him, 'I will take my wife and my little child, and +when we come to Father Point we will go ashore.' Bien, the captain laugh +big, and it was all right. That was long time ago--long time." + +He paused again, threw his head back with a despairing toss, his chin +dropped on his breast, his hands clasped between his knees, and his +pipe, laid beside him on the bench, was forgotten. + +Pierre quietly put some wood upon the fire, opened his kit, drew out +from it a little flask of rum and laid it upon the bench beside the +pipe. A long time passed. At last Gaspard roused himself with a long +sigh, turned and picked up the pipe, but, seeing the flask of rum, +lifted it, and took one long swallow before he began to fill and light +his pipe. There came into his voice something of iron hardness as he +continued his story. + +"Alors, we went into the boat. As we travelled down the gulf a great +storm came out of the north. We thought it would pass, but it stayed on. +When we got to the last place where the pilot could land, the waves were +running like hills to the shore, and no boat could live between the ship +and the point. For myself, it was nothing--I am a strong man and a great +swimmer. But when a man has a wife and a child, it is differen'. So the +ship went on out into the ocean with us. Well, we laugh a little, and +think what a great brain I had when I say to my wife: 'Come and bring +the child for the last voyage of Gaspard the pilot.' You see, there we +were on board the ship, everything ver' good, plenty to eat, much to +drink, to smoke, all the time. The sailors, they were ver' funny, and to +see them take my child, my little Babette, and play with her as she roll +on the deck--merci, it was gran'! So I say to my wife: + +"'This will be bon voyage for all.' But a woman, she has not the mind +like a man. When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil, a +woman laugh too, but there come a little quick sob to her lips. You ask +her why, and she cannot tell. She know that something will happen. A man +has great idee, a woman great sight. So my wife, she turn her face away +all sad from me then, and she was right--she was right! + +"One day in the ocean we pass a ship--only two days out. The ship signal +us. I say to my wife: 'Ha, ha! now we can go back, maybe, to the good +Ste. Anne.' Well, the ships come close together, and the captain of the +other ship he have something importan' with ours. He ask if there will +be chance of pilot into the gulf, because it is the first time that he +visit Quebec. The captain swing round and call to me. I go up. I bring +my wife and my little Babette; and that was how we sail back to the +great gulf. + +"When my wife step on board that ship I see her face get pale, and +something strange in her eyes. I ask her why; she do not know, but she +hug Babette close to her breast with a kind of fear. A long, low, black +ship, it could run through every sea. Soon the captain come to me and +say: 'You know the coast, the north coast of the gulf, from Labrador to +Quebec?' I tell him yes. 'Well,' he say, 'do you know of a bay where few +ships enter safe?' I think a moment and I tell him of Belle Amour. Then +he say, ver' quick: 'That is the place; we will go to the bay of Belle +Amour.' He was ver' kind to my face; he give my wife and child +good berth, plenty to eat and drink, and once more I laugh; but my +wife--there was in her face something I not understan'. It is not easy +to understan' a woman. We got to the bay. I had pride: I was young. I +was the best pilot in the St. Lawrence, and I took in the ship between +the reefs of the bay, where they run like a gridiron, and I laugh when I +swing the ship all ver' quick to the right, after we pass the reefs, and +make a curve round--something. The captain pull me up and ask why. But +I never tell him that. I not know why I never tell him. But the good God +put the thought into my head, and I keep it to this hour, and it never +leave me, never--never!" + +He slowly rubbed his hands up and down his knees, took another sip of +rum, and went on: + +"I brought the ship close up to the shore, and we go to anchor. All that +night I see the light of a fire on the shore. So I slide down and swim +to the shore. Under a little arch of rocks something was going on. +I could not tell, but I know from the sound that they are to bury +something. Then, all at once, it come to me--this is a pirate ship! I +come closer and closer to the light, and then I see a dreadful thing. +There was the captain and the mate, and another. They turn quick upon +two other men--two sailors--and kill them. Then they take the bodies +and wound them round some casks in a great hole, and cover it all up. I +understan'. It is the old legend that a dead body will keep gold all to +itself, so that no one shall find it. Mon Dieu!"--his voice dropped low +and shook in his throat--"I give one little cry at the sight, and then +they see me. There were three. They were armed; they sprang upon me and +tied me. Then they fling me beside the fire, and they cover up the hole +with the gold and the bodies. + +"When that was done they take me back to the ship, then with pistols at +my head they make me pilot the ship out into the bay again. As we went +they make a chart of the place. We travel along the coast for one day; +and then a great storm of snow come, and the captain say to me: 'Steer +us into harbour.' When we are at anchor, they take me and my wife, and +little child and put us ashore alone, with a storm and the bare rocks +and the dreadful night, and leave us there, that we shall never tell the +secret of the gold. That night my wife and my child die in the snow." + +Here his voice became strained and slow. "After a long time I work my +way to an Injin camp. For months I was a child in strength, all my flesh +gone. When the spring come I went and dug a deeper grave for my wife, +and p'tite Babette, and leave them there, where they had died. But I +come to the bay of Belle Amour, because I knew some day the man with +the devil's heart would come back for his gold, and then would arrive my +time--the hour of God!" + +He paused. "The hour of God," he repeated slowly. "I have waited twenty +years, but he has not come; yet I know that he will come. I feel it +here"--he touched his forehead; "I know it here"--he tapped his heart. +"Once where my heart was, there is only one thing, and it is hate, and I +know--I know--that he will come. And when he comes--" He raised his arm +high above his head, laughed wildly, paused, let the hand drop, and then +fell to staring into the fire. + +Pierre again placed the flask of rum between his fingers. But Gaspard +put it down, caught his arms together across his breast, and never +turned his face from the fire. Midnight came, and still they sat there +silent. No man had a greater gift in waiting than Pierre. Many a time +his life had been a swivel, upon which the comedies and tragedies of +others had turned. He neither loved nor feared men: sometimes he pitied +them. He pitied Gaspard. He knew what it is to have the heartstrings +stretched out, one by one, by the hand of a Gorgon, while the feet are +chained to the rocking world. + +Not till the darkest hour of the morning did the two leave their silent +watch and go to bed. The sun had crept stealthily to the door of the but +before they rose again. Pierre laid his hand upon Gaspard's shoulder as +they travelled out into the morning, and said: "My friend, I understand. +Your secret is safe with me; you shall take me to the place where the +gold is buried, but it shall wait there until the time is ripe. What is +gold to me? Nothing. To find gold--that is the trick of any fool. To win +it or to earn it is the only game. Let the bodies rot about the gold. +You and I will wait. I have many friends in the northland, but there +is no face in any tent door looking for me. You are alone: well, I will +stay with you. Who can tell--perhaps it is near at hand--the hour of +God!" + +The huge hard hand of Gaspard swallowed the small hand of Pierre, and, +in a voice scarcely above a whisper, he answered: "You shall be my +comrade. I have told you all, as I have never told it to my God. I do +not fear you about the gold--it is all cursed. You are not like other +men; I will trust you. Some time you also have had the throat of a man +in your fingers, and watched the life spring out of his eyes, and leave +them all empty. When men feel like that, what is gold--what is anything! +There is food in the bay and on the hills. + +"We will live together, you and I. Come and I will show you the place of +hell." + +Together they journeyed down the crag and along the beach to the place +where the gold, the grim god of this world, was fortressed and bastioned +by its victims. + +The days went on; the weeks and months ambled by. Still the two lived +together. Little speech passed between them, save that speech of +comrades, who use more the sign than the tongue. It seemed to Pierre +after a time that Gaspard's wrongs were almost his own. Yet with this +difference: he must stand by and let the avenger be the executioner; he +must be the spectator merely. + +Sometimes he went inland and brought back moose, caribou, and the skins +of other animals, thus assisting Gaspard in his dealings with the great +Company. But again there were days when he did nothing but lie on the +skins at the hut's door, or saunter in the shadows and the sunlight. +Not since he had come to Gaspard had a ship passed the bay or sought to +anchor in it. + +But there came a day. It was the early summer. The snow had shrunk from +the ardent sun, and had swilled away to the gulf, leaving the tender +grass showing. The moss on the rocks had changed from brown to green, +and the vagrant birds had fluttered back from the south. The winter's +furs had been carried away in the early spring to the Company's post, +by a detachment of coureurs de bois. There was little left to do. This +morning they sat in the sun looking out upon the gulf. Presently Gaspard +rose and went into the hut. Pierre's eyes still lazily scanned the +water. As he looked he saw a vessel rounding a point in the distance. +Suppose this was the ship of the pirate and murderer? The fancy diverted +him. His eyes drew away from the indistinct craft--first to the reefs, +and then to that spot where the colossal needle stretched up under the +water. It was as Pierre speculated. Brigond, the French pirate, who had +hidden his gold at such shameless cost, was, after twenty years in the +galleys at Toulon, come back to find his treasure. He had doubted little +that he would find it. The lonely spot, the superstition concerning dead +bodies, the supposed doom of Gaspard, all ran in his favour. His little +craft came on, manned by as vile a mob as ever mutinied or built a +wrecker's fire. + +When the ship got within a short distance of the bay, Pierre rose and +called. Gaspard came to the door. "There's work to do, pilot," he said. +Gaspard felt the thrill of his voice, and flashed a look out to the +gulf. He raised his hands with a gasp. "I feel it," he said: "it is the +hour of God!" + +He started to the rope ladder of the cliff, then wheeled suddenly and +came back to Pierre. "You must not come," he said. "Stay here and watch; +you shall see great things." His voice had a round, deep tone. He caught +both Pierre's hands in his and added: "It is for my wife and child; I +have no fear. Adieu, my friend! When you see the good Pere Corraine say +to him--but no, it is no matter--there is One greater!" + +Once again he caught Pierre hard by the shoulder, then ran to the cliff +and swung down the ladder. All at once there shot through Pierre's body +an impulse, and his eyes lighted with excitement. He sprang towards +the cliff. "Gaspard, come back!" he called; then paused, and, with an +enigmatical smile, shrugged his shoulders, drew back, and waited. + +The vessel was hove to outside the bay, as if hesitating. Brigond was +considering whether it were better, with his scant chart, to attempt the +bay, or to take small boats and make for the shore. He remembered the +reefs, but he did not know of the needle of rock. Presently he saw +Gaspard's boat coming. "Someone who knows the bay," he said; "I see a +hut on the cliff." + +"Hello, who are you?" Brigond called down as Gaspard drew alongside. + +"A Hudson's Bay Company's man," answered Gaspard. + +"How many are there of you?" + +"Myself alone." + +"Can you pilot us in?" + +"I know the way." + +"Come up." + +Gaspard remembered Brigond, and he veiled his eyes lest the hate he felt +should reveal him. No one could have recognised him as the young pilot +of twenty years before. Then his face was cheerful and bright, and in +his eye was the fire of youth. Now a thick beard and furrowing lines hid +all the look of the past. His voice, too, was desolate and distant. + +Brigond clapped him on the shoulder. "How long have you lived off +there?" he asked, as he jerked his finger towards the shore. + +"A good many years." + +"Did anything strange ever happen there?" Gaspard felt his heart +contract again, as it did when Brigond's hand touched his shoulder. + +"Nothing strange is known." + +A vicious joy came into Brigond's face. His fingers opened and shut. +"Safe, by the holy heaven!" he grunted. + +"'By the holy heaven!'" repeated Gaspard, under his breath. + +They walked forward. Almost as they did so there came a big puff of wind +across the bay: one of those sudden currents that run in from the ocean +and the gulf stream. Gaspard saw, and smiled. In a moment the vessel's +nose was towards the bay, and she sailed in, dipping a shoulder to the +sudden foam. On she came past reef and bar, a pretty tumbril to the +slaughter. The spray feathered up to her sails, the sun caught her on +deck and beam; she was running dead for the needle of rock. + +Brigond stood at Gaspard's side. All at once Gaspard made the sacred +gesture and said, in a low tone, as if only to himself: "Pardon, mon +capitaine, mon Jesu!" Then he turned triumphantly, fiercely, upon +Brigond. The pirate was startled. "What's the matter?" he said. + +Not Gaspard, but the needle rock replied. There was a sudden shock; +the vessel stood still and shivered; lurched, swung shoulder downwards, +reeled and struggled. Instantly she began to sink. + +"The boats! lower the boats!" cried Brigond. "This cursed fool has run +us on a rock!" + +The waves, running high, now swept over the deck. Brigond started aft, +but Gaspard sprang before him. "Stand back!" he called. "Where you are +you die!" + +Brigond, wild with terror and rage, ran at him. Gaspard caught him as he +came. With vast strength he lifted him and dashed him to the deck. "Die +there, murderer!" he cried. + +Brigond crouched upon the deck, looking at him with fearful eyes. +"Who-are you?" he asked. + +"I am Gaspard the pilot. I have waited for you twenty years. Up there, +in the snow, my wife and child died. Here, in this bay, you die." + +There was noise and racketing behind them, but they two heard nothing. +The one was alone with his terror, the other with his soul. Once, twice, +thrice, the vessel heaved, then went suddenly still. + +Gaspard understood. One look at his victim, then he made the sacred +gesture again, and folded his arms. Pierre, from the height of the +cliff, looking down, saw the vessel dip at the bow, and then the waters +divided and swallowed it up. + +"Gaspard should have lived," he said. "But--who can tell! Perhaps +Mamette was waiting for him." + + + + +THE CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" + +I. THE SEARCH + +She was only a big gulf yawl, which a man and a boy could manage at a +pinch, with old-fashioned high bulwarks, but lying clean in the water. +She had a tolerable record for speed, and for other things so important +that they were now and again considered by the Government at Quebec. She +was called the Ninety-Nine. With a sense of humour the cure had called +her so, after an interview with her owner and captain, Tarboe the +smuggler. When he said to Tarboe at Angel Point that he had come to +seek the one sheep that was lost, leaving behind him the other +ninety-and-nine within the fold at Isle of Days, Tarboe had replied that +it was a mistake--he was the ninety-nine, for he needed no repentance, +and immediately offered the cure some old brown brandy of fine flavour. +They both had a whimsical turn, and the cure did not ask Tarboe how he +came by such perfect liquor. Many high in authority, it was said, had +been soothed even to the winking of an eye when they ought to have sent +a Nordenfeldt against the Ninety-Nine. + +The day after the cure left Angel Point he spoke of Tarboe and his craft +as the Ninety-and-Nine; and Tarboe hearing of this--for somehow he heard +everything--immediately painted out the old name, and called her the +Ninety-Nine, saying that she had been so blessed by the cure. Afterwards +the Ninety-Nine had an increasing reputation for exploit and daring. In +brief, Tarboe and his craft were smugglers, and to have trusted gossip +would have been to say that the boat was as guilty as the man. + +Their names were much more notorious than sweet; and yet in Quebec men +laughed as they shrugged their shoulders at them; for as many jovial +things as evil were told of Tarboe. When it became known that a +dignitary of the Church had been given a case of splendid wine, which +had come in a roundabout way to him, men waked in the night and laughed, +to the annoyance of their wives; for the same dignitary had preached a +powerful sermon against smugglers and the receivers of stolen goods. It +was a sad thing for monsignor to be called a Ninety-Niner, as were all +good friends of Tarboe, high and low. But when he came to know, after +the wine had been leisurely drunk and becomingly praised, he brought his +influence to bear in civic places, so that there was nothing left to do +but to corner Tarboe at last. + +It was in the height of summer, when there was little to think of in the +old fortressed city, and a dart after a brigand appealed to the romantic +natures of the idle French folk, common and gentle. + +Through clouds of rank tobacco smoke, and in the wash of their bean +soup, the habitants discussed the fate of "Black Tarboe," and officers +of the garrison and idle ladies gossiped at the Citadel and at Murray +Bay of the freebooting gentlemen, whose Ninety-Nine had furnished forth +many a table in the great walled city. But Black Tarboe himself was down +at Anticosti, waiting for a certain merchantman. Passing vessels saw the +Ninety-Nine anchored in an open bay, flying its flag flippantly before +the world--a rag of black sheepskin, with the wool on, in profane +keeping with its name. + +There was no attempt at hiding, no skulking behind a point, or scurrying +from observation, but an indolent and insolent waiting--for something. +"Black Tarboe's getting reckless," said one captain coming in, and +another, going out, grinned as he remembered the talk at Quebec, and +thought of the sport provided for the Ninety-Nine when she should come +up stream; as she must in due time, for Tarboe's home was on the Isle of +Days, and was he not fond and proud of his daughter Joan to a point of +folly? He was not alone in his admiration of Joan, for the cure at Isle +of Days said high things of her. + +Perhaps this was because she was unlike most other girls, and women too, +in that she had a sense of humour, got from having mixed with choice +spirits who visited her father and carried out at Angel Point a kind of +freemasonry, which had few rites and many charges and countercharges. +She had that almost impossible gift in a woman--the power of telling +a tale whimsically. It was said that once, when Orvay Lafarge, a new +Inspector of Customs, came to spy out the land, she kept him so amused +by her quaint wit, that he sat in the doorway gossiping with her, while +Tarboe and two others unloaded and safely hid away a cargo of liquors +from the Ninety-Nine. And one of the men, as cheerful as Joan herself, +undertook to carry a little keg of brandy into the house, under the very +nose of the young inspector, who had sought to mark his appointment +by the detection and arrest of Tarboe single-handed. He had never met +Tarboe or Tarboe's daughter when he made his boast. If his superiors had +known that Loco Bissonnette, Tarboe's jovial lieutenant, had carried +the keg of brandy into the house in a water-pail, not fifteen feet from +where Lafarge sat with Joan, they might have asked for his resignation. +True, the thing was cleverly done, for Bissonnette made the water spill +quite naturally against his leg, and when he turned to Joan and said +in a crusty way that he didn't care if he spilled all the water in the +pail, he looked so like an unwilling water-carrier that Joan for one +little moment did not guess. When she understood, she laughed till the +tears came to her eyes, and presently, because Lafarge seemed hurt, gave +him to understand that he was upon his honour if she told him what it +was. He consenting, she, still laughing, asked him into the house, and +then drew the keg from the pail, before his eyes, and, tapping it, +gave him some liquor, which he accepted without churlishness. He found +nothing in this to lessen her in his eyes, for he knew that women +have no civic virtues. He drank to their better acquaintance with few +compunctions; a matter not scandalous, for there is nothing like a witty +woman to turn a man's head, and there was not so much at stake after +all. Tarboe had gone on for many a year till his trade seemed like the +romance of law rather than its breach. It is safe to say that Lafarge +was a less sincere if not a less blameless customs officer from this +time forth. For humour on a woman's lips is a potent thing, as any man +knows that has kissed it off in laughter. + +As we said, Tarboe lay rocking in a bight at Anticosti, with an empty +hold and a scanty larder. Still, he was in no ill-humour, for he smoked +much and talked more than common. Perhaps that was because Joan was with +him--an unusual thing. She was as good a sailor as her father, but +she did not care, nor did he, to have her mixed up with him in +his smuggling. So far as she knew, she had never been on board the +Ninety-Nine when it carried a smuggled cargo. She had not broken the +letter of the law. Her father, on asking her to come on this cruise, had +said that it was a pleasure trip to meet a vessel in the gulf. + +The pleasure had not been remarkable, though there had been no bad +weather. The coast of Anticosti is cheerless, and it is possible even +to tire of sun and water. True, Bissonnette played the concertina with +passing sweetness, and sang as little like a wicked smuggler as one +might think. But there were boundaries even to that, as there were to +his love-making, which was, however, so interwoven with laughter that it +was impossible to think the matter serious. Sometimes of an evening Joan +danced on deck to the music of the concertina--dances which had their +origin largely with herself fantastic, touched off with some unexpected +sleight of foot--almost uncanny at times to Bissonnette, whose +temperament could hardly go her distance when her mood was as this. + +Tarboe looked on with a keener eye and understanding, for was she not +bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh? Who was he that he should fail +to know her? He saw the moonlight play on her face and hair, and he +waved his head with the swaying of her body, and smacked his lips in +thought of the fortune which, smuggling days over, would carry them +up to St. Louis Street, Quebec, there to dwell as in a garden of good +things. + +After many days had passed, Joan tired of the concertina, of her own +dancing, of her father's tales, and became inquisitive. So at last she +said: + +"Father, what's all this for?" + +Tarboe did not answer her at once, but, turning to Bissonnette, asked +him to play "The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose." It was a gay little +demoiselle according to Bissonnette, and through the creaking, windy +gaiety Tarboe and his daughter could talk without being heard by the +musician. Tarboe lit another cigar--that badge of greatness in the eyes +of his fellow-habitants, and said: + +"What's all this for, Joan? Why, we're here for our health." His teeth +bit on the cigar with enjoyable emphasis. + +"If you don't tell me what's in the wind, you'll be sorry. Come, where's +the good? I've got as much head as you have, father, and--" + +"Mon Dieu! Much more. That's not the question. It was to be a surprise +to you." + +"Pshaw! You can only have one minute of surprise, and you can have +months of fun looking out for a thing. I don't want surprises; I want +what you've got--the thing that's kept you good-tempered while we lie +here like snails on the rocks." + +"Well, my cricket, if that's the way you feel, here you are. It is a +long story, but I will make it short. Once there was a pirate called +Brigond, and he brought into a bay on the coast of Labrador a fortune in +some kegs--gold, gold! He hid it in a cave, wrapping around it the dead +bodies of two men. It is thought that one can never find it so. He hid +it, and sailed away. He was captured, and sent to prison in France for +twenty years. Then he come back with a crew and another ship, and sailed +into the bay, but his ship went down within sight of the place. And so +the end of him and all. But wait. There was one man, the mate on the +first voyage. He had been put in prison also. He did not get away as +soon as Brigond. When he was free, he come to the captain of a ship that +I know, the Free-and-Easy, that sails to Havre, and told him the story, +asking for passage to Quebec. The captain--Gobal--did not believe it, +but said he would bring him over on the next voyage. Gobal come to me +and told me all there was to tell. I said that it was a true story, for +Pretty Pierre told me once he saw Brigond's ship go down in the bay; but +he would not say how, or why, or where. Pierre would not lie in a thing +like that, and--" + +"Why didn't he get the gold himself?" + +"What is money to him? He is as a gipsy. To him the money is cursed. He +said so. Eh bien! some wise men are fools, one way or another. Well, +I told Gobal I would give the man the Ninety-Nine for the cruise and +search, and that we should divide the gold between us, if it was found, +taking out first enough to make a dot for you and a fine handful for +Bissonnette. But no, shake not your head like that. It shall be so. Away +went Gobal four months ago, and I get a letter from him weeks past, just +after Pentecost, to say he would be here some time in the first of July, +with the man. + +"Well, it is a great game. The man is a pirate, but it does not +matter--he has paid for that. I thought you would be glad of a fine +adventure like that, so I said to you, Come." + +"But, father--" + +"If you do not like you can go on with Gobal in the Free-and-Easy, and +you shall be landed at the Isle of Days. That's all. We're waiting here +for Gobal. He promised to stop just outside this bay and land our man on +us. Then, blood of my heart, away we go after the treasure!" + +Joan's eyes flashed. Adventure was in her as deep as life itself. She +had been cradled in it, reared in it, lived with it, and here was no +law-breaking. Whose money was it? No one's: for who should say what +ship it was, or what people were robbed by Brigond and those others? +Gold--that was a better game than wine and brandy, and for once her +father would be on a cruise which would not be, as it were, sailing in +forbidden waters. + +"When do you expect Gobal?" she asked eagerly. "He ought to have been +here a week ago. Maybe he has had a bad voyage, or something." + +"He's sure to come?" + +"Of course. I found out about that. She's got a big consignment to +people in Quebec. Something has gone wrong, but she'll be here--yes." + +"What will you do if you get the money?" she asked. Tarboe laughed +heartily. "My faith! Come play up those scarlet hose, Bissonnette! My +faith, I'll go into Parliament at Quebec. Thunder! I will have sport +with them. I'll reform the customs. There shan't be any more smuggling. +The people of Quebec shall drink no more good wine--no one except Black +Tarboe, the member for Isle of Days." + +Again he laughed, and his eyes spilt fire like revolving wheels. For a +moment Joan was quiet; her face was shining like the sun on a river. She +saw more than her father, for she saw release. A woman may stand by a +man who breaks the law, but in her heart she always has bitterness, for +that the world shall speak well of herself and what she loves is the +secret desire of every woman. In her heart she never can defy the world +as does a man. + +She had carried off the situation as became the daughter of a daring +adventurer, who in more stirring times might have been a Du Lhut or a +Rob Roy, but she was sometimes tired of the fighting, sometimes wishful +that she could hold her position easier. Suppose the present good cure +should die and another less considerate arrive, how hard might her +position become! Then, she had a spirit above her station, as have most +people who know the world and have seen something of its forbidden side; +for it is notable that wisdom comes not alone from loving good things, +but from having seen evil as well as good. Besides Joan was not a woman +to go singly to her life's end. + +There was scarcely a man on Isle of Days and in the parish of Ste. +Eunice, on the mainland, but would gladly have taken to wife the +daughter of Tarboe the smuggler, and it is likely that the cure of +either parish would not have advised against it. + +Joan had had the taste of the lawless, and now she knew, as she sat and +listened to Bissonnette's music, that she also could dance for joy, +in the hope of a taste of the lawful. With this money, if it were got, +there could be another life--in Quebec. She could not forbear laughing +now as she remembered that first day she had seen Orvay Lafarge, and +she said to Bissonnette: "Loce, do you mind the keg in the water-pail?" +Bissonnette paused on an out-pull, and threw back his head with a +soundless laugh, then played the concertina into contortions. + +"That Lafarge! H'm! He is very polite; but pshaw, it is no use that, in +whisky-running! To beat a great man, a man must be great. Tarboe Noir +can lead M'sieu' Lafarge all like that!" + +It seemed as if he were pulling the nose of the concertina. Tarboe began +tracing a kind of maze with his fingers on the deck, his eyes rolling +outward like an endless puzzle. But presently he turned sharp on Joan. + +"How many times have you met him?" he asked. "Oh, six or seven--eight or +nine, perhaps." + +Her father stared. "Eight or nine? By the holy! Is it like that? Where +have you seen him?" + +"Twice at our home, as you know; two or three times at dances at the +Belle Chatelaine, and the rest when we were at Quebec in May. He is +amusing, M'sieu' Lafarge." + +"Yes, two of a kind," remarked Tarboe drily; and then he told his +schemes to Joan, letting Bissonnette hang up the "The Demoiselle with +the Scarlet Hose," and begin "The Coming of the Gay Cavalier." She +entered into his plans with spirit, and together they speculated what +bay it might be, of the many on the coast of Labrador. + +They spent two days longer waiting, and then at dawn a merchantman +came sauntering up to anchor. She signalled to the Ninety-Nine. In +five minutes Tarboe was climbing up the side of the Free-and-Easy, and +presently was in Gobal's cabin, with a glass of wine in his hand. + +"What kept you, Gobal?" he asked. "You're ten days late, at least." + +"Storm and sickness--broken mainmast and smallpox." Gobal was not +cheerful. + +Tarboe caught at something. "You've got our man?" Gobal drank off his +wine slowly. "Yes," he said. "Well?--Why don't you fetch him?" + +"You can see him below." + +"The man has legs, let him walk here. Hello, my Gobal, what's the +matter? If he's here bring him up. We've no time to lose." + +"Tarboe, the fool got smallpox, and died three hours ago--the tenth man +since we started. We're going to give him to the fishes. They're putting +him in his linen now." + +Tarboe's face hardened. Disaster did not dismay him, it either made him +ugly or humourous, and one phase was as dangerous as the other. + +"D'ye mean to say," he groaned, "that the game is up? Is it all +finished? Sweat o' my soul, my skin crawls like hot glass! Is it the +end, eh? The beast, to die!" + +Gobal's eyes glistened. He had sent up the mercury, he would now bring +it down. + +"Not such a beast as you think. Alive pirate, a convict, as comrade in +adventure, is not sugar in the teeth. This one was no better than the +worst. Well, he died. That was awkward. But he gave me the chart of the +bay before he died--and that was damn square." + +Tarboe held out his hand eagerly, the big fingers bending claw-like. + +"Give it me, Gobal," he said. + +"Wait. There's no hurry. Come along, there's the bell: they're going to +drop him." + +He coolly motioned, and passed out from the cabin to the ship's side. +Tarboe kept his tongue from blasphemy, and his hand from the captain's +shoulder, for he knew only too well that Gobal held the game in his +hands. They leaned over and saw two sailors with something on a plank. + +"We therefore commit his body to the deep, in the knowledge of the +Judgment Day--let her go!" grunted Gobal; and a long straight canvas +bundle shot with a swishing sound beneath the water. "It was rough +on him too," he continued. "He waited twenty years to have his chance +again. Damn me, if I didn't feel as if I'd hit him in the eye, somehow, +when he begged me to keep him alive long enough to have a look at the +rhino. But it wasn't no use. He had to go, and I told him so. + +"Then he did the fine thing: he give me the chart. But he made me swear +on a book of the Mass that if we got the gold we'd send one-half his +share to a woman in Paris, and the rest to his brother, a priest at +Nancy. I'll keep my word--but yes! Eh, Tarboe?" + +"You can keep your word for me! What, you think, Gobal, there is no +honour in Black Tarboe, and you've known me ten years! Haven't I always +kept my word like a clock?" + +Gobal stretched out his hand. "Like the sun-sure. That's enough. We'll +stand by my oath. You shall see the chart." + +Going again inside the cabin, Gobal took out a map grimed with ceaseless +fingering, and showed it to Tarboe, putting his finger on the spot where +the treasure lay. + +"The Bay of Belle Amour!" cried Tarboe, his eyes flashing. "Ah, I know +it! That's where Gaspard the pilot lived. It's only forty leagues or so +from here." His fingers ran here and there on the map. "Yes, yes," he +continued, "it's so, but he hasn't placed the reef right. Ah, here is +how Brigond's ship went down! There's a needle of rock in the bay. It +isn't here." + +Gobal handed the chart over. "I can't go with you, but I take your word; +I can say no more. If you cheat me I'll kill you; that's all." + +"Let me give a bond," said Tarboe quickly. "If I saw much gold perhaps +I couldn't trust myself, but there's someone to be trusted, who'll swear +for me. If my daughter Joan give her word--" + +"Is she with you?" + +"Yes, in the Ninety-Nine, now. I'll send Bissonnette for her. Yes, yes, +I'll send, for gold is worse than bad whisky when it gets into a man's +head. Joan will speak for me." + +Ten minutes later Joan was in Gobal's cabin, guaranteeing for her father +the fulfilment of his bond. An hour afterwards the Free-and-Easy was +moving up stream with her splintered mast and ragged sails, and the +Ninety-Nine was looking up and over towards the Bay of Belle Amour. She +reached it in the late afternoon of the next day. Bissonnette did not +know the object of the expedition, but he had caught the spirit of the +affair, and his eyes were like spots of steel as he held the sheet or +took his turn at the tiller. Joan's eyes were now on the sky, now on +the sail, and now on the land, weighing as wisely as her father the +advantage of the wind, yet dwelling on that cave where skeletons kept +ward over the spoils of a pirate ship. + +They arrived, and Tarboe took the Ninety-Nine warily in on a little wind +off the land. He came near sharing the fate of Brigond, for the yawl +grazed the needle of the rock that, hiding away in the water, with +a nose out for destruction, awaits its victims. They reached safe +anchorage, but by the time they landed it was night, with, however, a +good moon showing. + +All night they searched, three silent, eager figures, drawing step by +step nearer the place where the ancient enemy of man was barracked about +by men's bodies. It was Joan who, at last, as dawn drew up, discovered +the hollow between two great rocks where the treasure lay. A few +minutes' fierce digging, and the kegs of gold were disclosed, showing +through the ribs of two skeletons. Joan shrank back, but the two men +tossed aside the rattling bones, and presently the kegs were standing +between them on the open shore. Bissonnette's eyes were hungry--he knew +now the wherefore of the quest. He laughed outright, a silly, loud, +hysterical laugh. Tarboe's eyes shifted from the sky to the river, from +the river to the kegs, from the kegs to Bissonnette. On him they stayed +a moment. Bissonnette shrank back. Tarboe was feeling for the first time +in his life the deadly suspicion which comes with ill-gotten wealth. +This passed as his eyes and Joan's met, for she had caught the +melodrama, the overstrain; Bissonnette's laugh had pointed the +situation; and her sense of humour had prevailed. "La, la," she said, +with a whimsical quirk of the head, and no apparent relevancy: + + "Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, + Your house is on fire, and your children all gone." + +The remedy was good. Tarboe's eyes came again to their natural +liveliness, and Bissonnette said: + +"My throat's like a piece of sand-paper." + +Tarboe handed over a brandy flask, after taking a pull himself, and then +sitting down on one of the kegs, he said: "It is as you see, and now +Angel Point very quick. To get it there safe, that's the thing!" Then, +scanning the sky closely: "It's for a handsome day, and the wind goes +to bear us up fine. Good! Well, for you, Bissonnette, there shall be a +thousand dollars, you shall have the Belle Chatelaine Inn and the little +lady at Point Pierrot. For the rest, you shall keep a quiet tongue, eh? +If not, my Bissonnette, we shall be the best of strangers, and you shall +not be happy. Hein?" + +Bissonnette's eyes flashed. "The Belle Chatelaine? Good! That is enough. +My tongue is tied; I cannot speak; it is fastened with a thousand pegs." + +"Very good, a thousand gold pegs, and you shall never pull them. The +little lady will have you with them, not without; and unless you stand +by me, no one shall have you at any price--by God!" + +He stood up, but Joan put out her hand. "You have been speaking, now it +is my turn. Don't cry cook till you have the venison home. What is +more, I gave my word to Gobal, and I will keep it. I will be captain. +No talking! When you've got the kegs in the cellar at Angel Point, good! +But now--come, my comrades, I am your captain!" + +She was making the thing a cheerful adventure, and the men now swung +the kegs on their shoulders and carried them to the boat. In another +half-hour they were under way in the gaudy light of an orange sunrise, a +simmering wind from the sea lifting them up the river, and the grey-red +coast of Labrador shrinking sullenly back. + +About this time, also, a Government cutter was putting out from under +the mountain-wall at Quebec, its officer in command having got renewed +orders from the Minister to bring in Tarboe the smuggler. And when Mr. +Martin, the inspector in command of the expedition, was ordered to take +with him Mr. Orvay Lafarge and five men, "effectively armed," it was +supposed by the romantic Minister that the matter was as good as done. + +What Mr. Orvay Lafarge did when he got the word, was to go straight to +his hat-peg, then leave the office, walk to the little club where he +spent leisure hours, called office hours by people who wished to be +precise as well as suggestive,--sit down, and raise a glass to his lips. +After which he threw himself back in his chair and said: "Well, I'm +particularly damned!" A few hours later they were away on their doubtful +exploit. + + +II. THE DEFENCE + +On the afternoon of the second day after she left Labrador, the +Ninety-Nine came rippling near Isle of Fires, not sixty miles from her +destination, catching a fair wind on her quarter off the land. Tarboe +was in fine spirits, Joan was as full of songs as a canary, and +Bissonnette was as busy watching her as in keeping the nose of the +Ninety-Nine pointing for Cap de Gloire. Tarboe was giving the sail full +to the wind, and thinking how he would just be able to reach Angel Point +and get his treasure housed before mass in the morning. + +Mass! How many times had he laughed as he sat in church and heard the +cure have his gentle fling at smuggling! To think that the hiding-place +for his liquor was the unused, almost unknown, cellar of that very +church, built a hundred years before as a refuge from the Indians, which +he had reached by digging a tunnel from the shore to its secret passage! +That was why the customs officers never found anything at Angel Point, +and that was why Tarboe much loved going to mass. He sometimes thought +he could catch the flavour of the brands as he leaned his forehead +on the seat before him. But this time he would go to mass with a fine +handful of those gold pieces in his pocket, just to keep him in a +commendable mood. He laughed out loud at the thought of doing so within +a stone's throw of a fortune and nose-shot of fifty kegs of brandy. + +As he did so, Bissonnette gave a little cry. They were coming on to +Cap de Gloire at the moment, and Tarboe and Joan, looking, saw a boat +standing off towards the mainland, as if waiting for them. Tarboe gave +a roar, and called to Joan to take the tiller. He snatched a glass and +levelled it. + +"A Government tug!" he said, "and tete de Diable! there's your tall +Lafarge among 'em, Joan! I'd know him by his height miles off." + +Joan lost colour a trifle and then got courage. "Pshaw," she said, "what +does he want?" + +"Want? Want? He wants the Ninety-Nine and her cargo; but by the sun of +my soul, he'll get her across the devil's gridiron! See here, my girl, +this ain't any sport with you aboard. Bissonnette and I could make a +stand for it alone, but what's to become of you? I don't want you mixed +up in the mess." + +The girl was eyeing the Government boat. "But I'm in it, and I can't be +out of it, and I don't want to be out now that I am in. Let me see the +glass." She took it in one hand. "Yes, it must be M'sieu' Lafarge," she +said, frowning. "He might have stayed out of this." + +"When he's got orders, he has to go," answered her father; "but he must +look out, for a gun is a gun, and I don't pick and choose. Besides, I've +no contraband this cruise, and I'll let no one stick me up." + +"There are six or seven of them," said Joan debatingly. + +"Bring her up to the wind," shouted Tarboe to Bissonnette. The mainsail +closed up several points, the Ninety-Nine slackened her pace and edged +in closer to the land. "Now, my girl," said Tarboe, "this is how it +stands. If we fight, there's someone sure to be hurt, and if I'm hurt, +where'll you be?" + +Bissonnette interposed. "We've got nothing contraband. The gold is +ours." + +"Trust that crew--but no!" cried Tarboe, with an oath. "The Government +would hold the rhino for possible owners, and then give it to a convent +or something. They shan't put foot here. They've said war, and they'll +get it. They're signalling us to stop, and they're bearing down. There +goes a shot!" + +The girl had been watching the Government boat coolly. Now that it began +to bear on, she answered her father's question. + +"Captain," she said, like a trusted mate, "we'll bluff them." Her +eyes flashed with the intelligence of war. "Here, quick, I'll take the +tiller. They haven't seen Bissonnette yet; he sits low. Call all hands +on deck--shout! Then, see: Loce will go down the middle hatch, get a +gun, come up with it on his shoulder, and move on to the fo'castle. Then +he'll drop down the fo'castle hatch, get along to the middle hatch, and +come up again with the gun, now with his cap, now without it, now with +his coat, now without it. He'll do that till we've got twenty or thirty +men on deck! They'll think we've been laying for them, and they'll not +come on--you see!" + +Tarboe ripped out an oath. "It's a great game," he said, and a moment +afterwards, in response to his roars, Bissonnette came up the hatch with +his gun showing bravely; then again and again, now with his cap, now +without, now with his coat, now with none, anon with a tarpaulin over +his shoulders grotesquely. Meanwhile Tarboe trained his one solitary +little cannon on the enemy, roaring his men into place. + +From the tug it seemed that a large and well-armed crew were ranging +behind the bulwarks of the Ninety-Nine. Mr. Martin, the inspector, saw +with alarm Bissonnette's constantly appearing rifle. + +"They've arranged a plant for us, Mr. Lafarge. What do you think we'd +better do?" he asked. + +"Fight!" answered Lafarge laconically. He wished to put himself on +record, for he was the only one on board who saw through the ruse. + +"But I've counted at least twenty men, all armed, and we've only five." + +"As you please, sir," said Lafarge bluntly, angry at being tricked, but +inwardly glad to be free of the business, for he pictured to himself +that girl at the tiller--he had seen her as she went aft--in a police +court at Quebec. Yet his instinct for war and his sense of duty impelled +him to say: "Still, sir, fight!" + +"No, no, Mr. Lafarge," excitedly rejoined his chief. "I cannot risk it. +We must go back for more men and bring along a Gatling. Slow down!" he +called. Lafarge turned on his heel with an oath, and stood watching the +Ninety-Nine. + +"She'll laugh at me till I die!" he said to himself presently, as the +tug turned up stream and pointed for Quebec. "Well, I'm jiggered!" he +added, as a cannon shot came ringing over the water after them. He was +certain also that he heard loud laughter. No doubt he was right; for +as the tug hurried on, Tarboe ran to Joan, hugged her like a bear, and +roared till he ached. Then she paid out the sheet, they clapped on all +sail, and travelled in the track of the enemy. + +Tarboe's spirit was roused. He was not disposed to let his enemy off on +even such terms, so he now turned to Joan and said: "What say you to a +chase of the gentleman?" + +Joan was in a mood for such a dare-devil adventure. For three people, +one of whom was a girl, to give chase to a well-manned, well-armed +Government boat was too good a relish to be missed. Then, too, it had +just occurred to her that a parley would be amusing, particularly if she +and Lafarge were the truce-bearers. So she said: "That is very good." + +"Suppose they should turn and fight?" suggested Bissonnette. + +"That's true--here's m'am'selle," agreed Tarboe. "But, see," said Joan. +"If we chase them and call upon them to surrender--and after all, we can +prove that we had nothing contraband--what a splendid game it'll be!" +Mischief flicked in her eyes. + +"Good!" said Tarboe. "To-morrow I shall be a rich man, and then they'll +not dare to come again." + +So saying, he gave the sail to the wind, and away the Ninety-Nine went +after the one ewe lamb of the Government. + +Mr. Martin saw her coming, and gave word for all steam. It would be +a pretty game, for the wind was in Tarboe's favour, and the general +advantage was not greatly with the tug. Mr. Martin was now anxious +indeed to get out of the way of the smuggler. Lafarge made one +restraining effort, then settled into an ironical mood. Yet a half-dozen +times he was inclined to blurt out to Martin what he believed was the +truth. A man, a boy, and a girl to bluff them that way! In his bones he +felt that it was the girl who was behind this thing. Of one matter he +was sure--they had no contraband stuff on board, or Tarboe would not +have brought his daughter along. He could not understand the attitude, +for Tarboe would scarcely have risked the thing out of mere bravado. Why +not call a truce? Perhaps he could solve the problem. They were keeping +a tolerably safe distance apart, and there was no great danger of the +Ninety-Nine overhauling them even if it so willed; but Mr. Martin did +not know that. + +What he said to his chief had its effect, and soon there was a +white flag flying on the tug. It was at once answered with a white +handkerchief of Joan's. Then the tug slowed up, the Ninety-Nine came on +gaily, and at a good distance came up to the wind, and stood off. + +"What do you want?" asked Tarboe through his speaking-tube. + +"A parley," called Mr. Martin. + +"Good; send an officer," answered Tarboe. + +A moment after, Lafarge was in a boat rowing over to meet another +boat rowed by Joan alone, who, dressed in a suit of Bissonnette's, had +prevailed on her father to let her go. + +The two boats nearing each other, Joan stood up, saluting, and Lafarge +did the same. + +"Good-day, m'sieu'," said Joan, with assumed brusqueness, mischief +lurking about her mouth. "What do you want?" + +"Good-day, monsieur; I did not expect to confer with you." + +"M'sieu'," said Joan, with well-acted dignity, "if you prefer to confer +with the captain or Mr. Bissonnette, whom I believe you know in the +matter of a pail, and--" + +"No, no; pardon me, monsieur," said Lafarge more eagerly than was good +for the play, "I am glad to confer with you, you will understand--you +will understand--" He paused. + +"What will I understand?" + +"You will understand that I understand!" Lafarge waved meaningly towards +the Ninety-Nine, but it had no effect at all. Joan would not give the +game over into his hands. + +"That sounds like a charade or a puzzle game. We are gentlemen on a +serious errand, aren't we?" + +"Yes," answered Lafarge, "perfect gentlemen on a perfectly serious +errand!" + +"Very well, m'sieu'. Have you come to surrender?" The splendid impudence +of the thing stunned Lafarge, but he said: "I suppose one or the other +ought to surrender; and naturally," he added with slow point, "it should +be the weaker." + +"Very well. Our captain is willing to consider conditions. You came down +on us to take us--a quiet craft sailing in free waters. You attack us +without cause. We summon all hands, and you run. We follow, you ask +for truce. It is granted. We are not hard--no. We only want our rights. +Admit them; we'll make surrender easy, and the matter is over." + +Lafarge gasped. She was forcing his hand. She would not understand his +oblique suggestions. He saw only one way now, and that was to meet her, +boast for boast. + +"I haven't come to surrender," he said, "but to demand." + +"M'sieu'," Joan said grandly, "there's nothing more to say. Carry word +to your captain that we'll overhaul him by sundown, and sink him before +supper." + +Lafarge burst out laughing. + +"Well, by the Lord, but you're a swashbuckler, Joan--" + +"M'sieu'--" + +"Oh, nonsense! I tell you, nonsense! Let's have over with this, my girl. +You're the cleverest woman on the continent, but there's a limit to +everything. Here, tell me now, and if you answer me straight I'll say no +more." + +"M'sieu', I am here to consider conditions, not to--" "Oh, for God's +sake, Joan! Tell me now, have you got anything contraband on board? +There'll be a nasty mess about the thing, for me and all of us, and why +can't we compromise? I tell you honestly we'd have come on, if I hadn't +seen you aboard." + +Joan turned her head back with a laugh. "My poor m'sieu'! You have such +bad luck. Contraband? Let me see? Liquors and wines and tobacco are +contraband. Is it not so?" Lafarge nodded. + +"Is money--gold--contraband?" + +"Money? No; of course not, and you know it. Why won't you be sensible? +You're getting me into a bad hole, and--" + +"I want to see how you'll come out. If you come out well--" She paused +quaintly. + +"Yes, if I come out well--" + +"If you come out very well, and we do not sink you before supper, I may +ask you to come and see me." + +"H'm! Is that all? After spoiling my reputation, I'm to be let come and +see you." + +"Isn't that enough to start with? What has spoiled your reputation?" + +"A man, a boy, and a slip of a girl." He looked meaningly enough at her +now. She laughed. "See," he added; "give me a chance. Let me search the +Ninety-Nine for contraband,--that's all I've got to do with,--and then +I can keep quiet about the rest. If there's no contraband, whatever else +there is, I'll hold my tongue." + +"I've told you what there is." + +He did not understand. "Will you let me search?" Joan's eyes flashed. +"Once and for all, no, Orvay Lafarge. I am the daughter of a man whom +you and your men would have killed or put in the dock. He's been a +smuggler, and I know it. Who has he robbed? Not the poor, not the needy; +but a rich Government that robs also. Well, in the hour when he ceases +to be a smuggler for ever, armed men come to take him. Why didn't they +do so before? Why so pious all at once? No; I am first the daughter of +my father, and afterwards--" + +"And afterwards?" + +"What to-morrow may bring forth." + +Lafarge became very serious. "I must go back. Mr. Martin is signalling, +and your father is calling. I do not understand, but you're the one +woman in the world for my money, and I'm ready to stand by that and +leave the customs to-morrow if need be." + +Joan's eyes blazed, her cheek was afire. "Leave it to-day. Leave it now. +Yes; that's my one condition. If you want me, and you say you do, come +aboard the Ninety-Nine, and for to-day be one of us-to-morrow what you +will." + +"What I will? What I will, Joan? Do you mean it?" + +"Yes. Pshaw! Your duty? Don't I know how the Ministers and the officers +have done their duty at Quebec? It's all nonsense. You must make your +choice once for all now." + +Lafarge stood a moment thinking. "Joan, I'll do it. I'd go hunting in +hell at your bidding. But see. Everything's changed. I couldn't fight +against you, but I can fight for you. All must be open now. You've said +there's no contraband. Well, I'll tell Mr. Martin so, but I'll tell him +also that you've only a crew of two--" + +"Of three, now!" + +"Of three! I will do my duty in that, then resign and come over to you, +if I can." + +"If you can? You mean that they may fire on you?" + +"I can't tell what they may do. But I must deal fair." + +Joan's face was grave. "Very well, I will wait for you here." + +"They might hit you." + +"But no. They can't hit a wall. Go on, my dear." They saluted, and, as +Lafarge turned away, Joan said, with a little mocking laugh, "Tell him +that he must surrender, or we'll sink him before supper." + +Lafarge nodded, and drew away quickly towards the tug. His interview +with Mr. Martin was brief, and he had tendered his resignation, though +it was disgracefully informal, and was over the side of the boat again +and rowing quickly away before his chief recovered his breath. Then Mr. +Martin got a large courage. He called on his men to fire when Lafarge +was about two hundred and fifty feet from the tug. The shots rattled +about him. He turned round coolly and called out, "Coward-we'll sink you +before supper!" + +A minute afterwards there came another shot, and an oar dropped from +his hand. But now Joan was rowing rapidly towards him, and presently was +alongside. + +"Quick, jump inhere," she said. He did so, and she rowed on quickly. +Tarboe did not understand, but now his blood was up, and as another +volley sent bullets dropping around the two he gave the Ninety-Nine to +the wind, and she came bearing down smartly to them. In a few moments +they were safely on board, and Joan explained. Tarboe grasped Lafarge's +unmaimed hand,--the other Joan was caring for,--and swore that fighting +was the only thing left now. + +Mr. Martin had said the same, but when he saw the Ninety-Nine +determined, menacing, and coming on, he became again uncertain, and +presently gave orders to make for the lighthouse on the opposite side of +the river. He could get over first, for the Ninety-Nine would not have +the wind so much in her favour, and there entrench himself; for even yet +Bissonnette amply multiplied was in his mind--Lafarge had not explained +that away. He was in the neighbourhood of some sunken rocks of which he +and his man at the wheel did not know accurately, and in making what he +thought was a clear channel he took a rock with great force, for they +were going full steam ahead. Then came confusion, and in getting out the +one boat it was swamped and a man nearly drowned. Meanwhile the tug was +fast sinking. + +While they were throwing off their clothes, the Ninety-Nine came down, +and stood off. On one hand was the enemy, on the other the water, with +the shore half a mile distant. + +"Do you surrender?" called out Tarboe. + +"Can't we come aboard without that?" feebly urged Mr. Martin. + +"I'll see you damned first, Mr. Martin. Come quick, or I'll give you +what for." + +"We surrender," answered the officer gently. + +A few minutes later he and his men were on board, with their rifles +stacked in a corner at Bissonnette's hand. + +Then Tarboe brought the Ninety-Nine close to the wreck, and with his +little cannon put a ball into her. This was the finish. She shook her +nose, shivered, shot down like a duck, and was gone. + +Mr. Martin was sad even to tears. + +"Now, my beauties," said Tarboe, "now that I've got you safe, I'll show +you the kind of cargo I've got." A moment afterwards he hoisted a keg on +deck. "Think that's whisky?" he asked. "Lift it, Mr. Martin." Mr. Martin +obeyed. "Shake it," he added. + +Mr. Martin did so. "Open it, Mr. Martin." He held out a hatchet-hammer. +The next moment a mass of gold pieces yellowed to their eyes. Mr. Martin +fell back, breathing hard. + +"Is that contraband, Mr. Martin?" + +"Treasure-trove," humbly answered the stricken officer. + +"That's it, and in a month, Mr. Martin, I'll be asking the chief of your +department to dinner." + +Meanwhile Lafarge saw how near he had been to losing a wife and a +fortune. Arrived off Isle of Day; Tarboe told Mr. Martin and his men +that if they said "treasure-trove" till they left the island their live +would not be worth "a tinker's damn." When they had sworn, he took them +to Angel Point, fed then royally, gave them excellent liquor to drink, +and sent them in a fishing-smack with Bissonnette to Quebec where, +arriving, they told strange tales. + +Bissonnette bore a letter to a certain banker in Quebec, who already had +done business with Tarboe, and next midnight Tarboe himself, with Gobal, +Lafarge, Bissonnette, and another, came knocking at the banker's door, +each carrying a keg on his shoulder and armed to the teeth. And, what +was singular two stalwart police-officers walked behind with comfortable +and approving looks. + +A month afterwards Lafarge and Joan were married in the parish church +at Isle of Days, and it was said that Mr. Martin, who, for some strange +reason, was allowed to retain his position in the customs, sent a +present. The wedding ended with a sensation, for just as the benediction +was pronounced a loud report was heard beneath the floor of the church. +There was great commotion, but Tarboe whispered in the curb's ear, +and he blushing, announced that it was the bursting of a barrel. A few +minutes afterwards the people of the parish knew the old hiding-place of +Tarboe's contraband, and, though the cure rebuked them, they roared with +laughter at the knowledge. + +"So droll, so droll, our Tarboe there!" they shouted, for already they +began to look upon him as their Seigneur. + +In time the cure forgave him also. + +Tarboe seldom left Isle of Days, save when he went to visit his +daughter, in St. Louis Street, Quebec, not far from the Parliament +House, where Orvay Lafarge is a member of the Ministry. The ex-smuggler +was a member of the Assembly for three months, but after defeating his +own party on a question of tariff, he gave a portrait of himself to the +Chamber, and threw his seat into the hands of his son-in-law. At the +Belle Chatelaine, where he often goes, he sometimes asks Bissonnette to +play "The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose." + + + + +ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + +I + +When old Throng the trader, trembling with sickness and misery, got on +his knees to Captain Halby and groaned, "She didn't want to go; they +dragged her off; you'll fetch her back, won't ye?--she always had a +fancy for you, cap'n," Pierre shrugged a shoulder and said: + +"But you stole her when she was in her rock-a-by, my Throng--you and +your Manette." + +"Like a match she was--no bigger," continued the old man. "Lord, how +that stepmother bully-ragged her, and her father didn't care a darn. +He'd half a dozen others--Manette and me hadn't none. We took her and +used her like as if she was an angel, and we brought her off up here. +Haven't we set store by her? Wasn't it 'cause we was lonely an' loved +her we took her? Hasn't everybody stood up and said there wasn't anyone +like her in the North? Ain't I done fair by her always--ain't I? An' +now, when this cough 's eatin' my life out, and Manette 's gone, and +there ain't a soul but Duc the trapper to put a blister on to me, them +brutes ride up from over the border, call theirselves her brothers, an' +drag her off!" + +He was still on his knees. Pierre reached over and lightly kicked a +moccasined foot. + +"Get up, Jim Throng," he said. "Holy! do you think the law moves because +an old man cries? Is it in the statutes?--that's what the law says. Does +it come within the act? Is it a trespass--an assault and battery?--a +breach of the peace?--a misdemeanour? Victoria--So and So: that's how +the law talks. Get on your knees to Father Corraine, not to Captain +Halby, Jimmy Throng." + +Pierre spoke in a half-sinister, ironical way, for between him and +Captain Halby's Riders of the Plains there was no good feeling. More +than once he had come into conflict with them, more than once had they +laid their hands on him--and taken them off again in due time. He had +foiled them as to men they wanted; he had defied them--but he had helped +them too, when it seemed right to him; he had sided with them once or +twice when to do so was perilous to himself. He had sneered at them, +he did not like them, nor they him. The sum of it was, he thought them +brave--and stupid; and he knew that the law erred as often as it set +things right. + +The Trader got up and stood between the two men, coughing much, his face +straining, his eyes bloodshot, as he looked anxiously from Pierre to +Halby. He was the sad wreck of a strong man. Nothing looked strong about +him now save his head, which, with its long grey hair, seemed badly +balanced by the thin neck, through which the terrible cough was hacking. + +"Only half a lung left," he stammered, as soon as he could speak, "an' +Duc can't fix the boneset, camomile, and whisky, as she could. An' he +waters the whisky--curse-his-soul!" The last three words were spoken +through another spasm of coughing. "An' the blister--how he mucks the +blister!" + +Pierre sat back on the table, laughing noiselessly, his white teeth +shining. Halby, with one foot on a bench, was picking at the fur on +his sleeve thoughtfully. His face was a little drawn, his lips were +tight-pressed, and his eyes had a light of excitement. Presently he +straightened himself, and, after a half-malicious look at Pierre, he +said to Throng: + +"Where are they, do you say?" + +"They're at"--the old man coughed hard--"at Fort O'Battle." + +"What are they doing there?" + +"Waitin' till spring, when they'll fetch their cattle up an' settle +there." + +"They want--Lydia--to keep house for them?" The old man writhed. + +"Yes, God's sake, that's it! An' they want Liddy to marry a devil +called Borotte, with a thousand cattle or so--Pito the courier told me +yesterday. Pito saw her, an' he said she was white like a sheet, an' +called out to him as he went by. Only half a lung I got, an' her boneset +and camomile 'd save it for a bit, mebbe--mebbe!" + +"It's clear," said Halby, "that they trespassed, and they haven't proved +their right to her." + +"Tonnerre, what a thinker!" said Pierre, mocking. Halby did not notice. +His was a solid sense of responsibility. + +"She is of age?" he half asked, half mused. + +"She's twenty-one," answered the old man, with difficulty. + +"Old enough to set the world right," suggested Pierre, still mocking. + +"She was forced away, she regarded you as her natural protector, she +believed you her father: they broke the law," said the soldier. + +"There was Moses, and Solomon, and Caesar, and Socrates, and now...!" +murmured Pierre in assumed abstraction. + +A red spot burned on Halby's high cheekbone for a minute, but he +persistently kept his temper. + +"I'm expected elsewhere," he said at last. "I'm only one man, yet I wish +I could go to-day--even alone. But--" + +"But you have a heart," said Pierre. "How wonderful--a heart! And +there's the half a lung, and the boneset and camomile tea, and the +blister, and the girl with an eye like a spot of rainbow, and the +sacred law in a Remington rifle! Well, well! And to do it in the early +morning--to wait in the shelter of the trees till some go to look after +the horses, then enter the house, arrest those inside, and lay low for +the rest." + +Halby looked over at Pierre astonished. Here was raillery and good +advice all in a piece. + +"It isn't wise to go alone, for if there's trouble and I should go down, +who's to tell the truth? Two could do it; but one--no, it isn't wise, +though it would look smart enough." + +"Who said to go alone?" asked Pierre, scrawling on the table with a +burnt match. + +"I have no men." + +Pierre looked up at the wall. + +"Throng has a good Snider there," he said. "Bosh! Throng can't go." + +The old man coughed and strained. + +"If it wasn't--only-half a lung, and I could carry the boneset 'long +with us." + +Pierre slid off the table, came to the old man, and, taking him by +the arms, pushed him gently into a chair. "Sit down; don't be a fool, +Throng," he said. Then he turned to Halby: "You're a magistrate--make me +a special constable; I'll go, monsieur le capitaine--of no company." + +Halby stared. He knew Pierre's bravery, his ingenuity and daring. But +this was the last thing he expected: that the malicious, railing little +half-breed would work with him and the law. Pierre seemed to understand +his thoughts, for he said: "It is not for you. I am sick for adventure, +and then there is mademoiselle--such a finger she has for a ven'son +pudding." + +Without a word Halby wrote on a leaf in his notebook, and presently +handed the slip to Pierre. "That's your commission as a special +constable," he said, "and here's the seal on it." He handed over a +pistol. + +Pierre raised his eyebrows at it, but Halby continued: "It has the +Government mark. But you'd better bring Throng's rifle too." + +Throng sat staring at the two men, his hands nervously shifting on +his knees. "Tell Liddy," he said, "that the last batch of bread was +sour--Duc ain't no good-an' that I ain't had no relish sence she left. +Tell her the cough gits lower down all the time. 'Member when she tended +that felon o' yourn, Pierre?" + +Pierre looked at a sear on his finger and nodded. "She cut it too young; +but she had the nerve! When do you start, captain? It's an eighty-mile +ride." + +"At once," was the reply. "We can sleep to-night in the Jim-a-long-Jo" +(a hut which the Company had built between two distant posts), "and get +there at dawn day after to-morrow. The snow is light and we can travel +quick. I have a good horse, and you--" + +"I have my black Tophet. He'll travel with your roan as on one +snaffle-bar. That roan--you know where he come from?" + +"From the Dolright stud, over the Border." + +"That's wrong. He come from Greystop's paddock, where my Tophet was +foaled; they are brothers. Yours was stole and sold to the Gover'ment; +mine was bought by good hard money. The law the keeper of stolen +goods, eh? But these two will go cinch to cinch all the way, like two +brothers--like you and me." + +He could not help the touch of irony in his last words: he saw the +amusing side of things, and all humour in him had a strain of the +sardonic. + +"Brothers-in-law for a day or two," answered Halby drily. + +Within two hours they were ready to start. Pierre had charged Duc the +incompetent upon matters for the old man's comfort, and had himself, +with a curious sort of kindness, steeped the boneset and camomile in +whisky, and set a cup of it near his chair. Then he had gone up to +Throng's bedroom and straightened out and shook and "made" the corn-husk +bed, which had gathered into lumps and rolls. Before he came down he +opened a door near by and entered another room, shutting the door, and +sitting down on a chair. A stovepipe ran through the room, and it was +warm, though the window was frosted and the world seemed shut out. He +looked round slowly, keenly interested. There was a dressing-table made +of an old box; it was covered with pink calico, with muslin over this. +A cheap looking-glass on it was draped with muslin and tied at the top +with a bit of pink ribbon. A common bone comb lay near the glass, and +beside it a beautiful brush with an ivory back and handle. This was the +only expensive thing in the room. He wondered, but did not go near it +yet. There was a little eight-day clock on a bracket which had been made +by hand--pasteboard darkened with umber and varnished; a tiny little +set of shelves made of the wood of cigar-boxes; and--alas, the shifts +of poverty to be gay!--an easy-chair made of the staves of a barrel and +covered with poor chintz. Then there was a photograph or two, in little +frames made from the red cedar of cigar-boxes, with decorations of +putty, varnished, and a long panel screen of birch-bark of Indian +workmanship. Some dresses hung behind the door. The bedstead was small, +the frame was of hickory, with no footboard, ropes making the support +for the husk tick. Across the foot lay a bedgown and a pair of +stockings. + +Pierre looked long, at first curiously; but after a little his forehead +gathered and his lips drew in a little, as if he had a twinge of pain. +He got up, went over near the bed, and picked up a hairpin. Then he came +back to the chair and sat down, turning it about in his fingers, still +looking abstractedly at the floor. + +"Poor Lucy!" he said presently; "the poor child! Ah, what a devil I was +then--so long ago!" + +This solitary room--Lydia's--had brought back the time he went to the +room of his own wife, dead by her own hand after an attempt to readjust +the broken pieces of life, and sat and looked at the place which had +been hers, remembering how he had left her with her wet face turned to +the wall, and never saw her again till she was set free for ever. Since +that time he had never sat in a room sacred to a woman alone. + +"What a fool, what a fool, to think!" he said at last, standing up; "but +this girl must be saved. She must have her home here again." + +Unconsciously he put the hairpin in his pocket, walked over to the +dressing-table and picked up the hair-brush. On its back was the legend, +"L. T. from C. H." He gave a whistle. + +"So-so?" he said, "'C. H.' M'sieu' le capitaine, is it like that?" + +A year before, Lydia had given Captain Halby a dollar to buy her a +hair-brush at Winnipeg, and he had brought her one worth ten dollars. +She had beautiful hair, and what pride she had in using this brush! +Every Sunday morning she spent a long time in washing, curling, and +brushing her hair, and every night she tended it lovingly, so that it +was a splendid rich brown like her eye, coiling nobly above her plain, +strong face with its good colour. + +Pierre, glancing in the glass, saw Captain Halby's face looking over +his shoulder. It startled him, and he turned round. There was the face +looking out from a photograph that hung on the wall in the recess where +the bed was. He noted now that the likeness hung where the girl could +see it the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. + +"So far as that, eh!" he said. "And m'sieu' is a gentleman, too. We +shall see what he will do: he has his chance now, once for all." + +He turned, came to the door, softly opened it, passed out, and shut +it, then descended the stairs, and in half an hour was at the door with +Captain Halby, ready to start. It was an exquisite winter day, even +in its bitter coldness. The sun was shining clear and strong, all the +plains glistened and shook like quicksilver, and the vast blue cup of +sky seemed deeper than it had ever been. But the frost ate the skin +like an acid, and when Throng came to the door Pierre drove him back +instantly from the air. + +"I only-wanted--to say--to Liddy," hacked the old man, "that I'm +thinkin'--a little m'lasses 'd kinder help--the boneset an' camomile. +Tell her that the cattle 'll all be hers--an'--the house, an' I ain't +got no one but--" + +But Pierre pushed him back and shut the door, saying: "I'll tell +her what a fool you are, Jimmy Throng." The old man, as he sat down +awkwardly in his chair, with Duc stolidly lighting his pipe and watching +him, said to himself: "Yes, I be a durn fool; I be, I be!" over and over +again. And when the dog got up from near the stove and came near to him, +he added: "I be, Touser; I be a durn fool, for I ought to ha' stole two +or three, an' then I'd not be alone, an' nothin' but sour bread an' pork +to eat. I ought to ha' stole three." + +"Ah, Manette ought to have given you some of your own, it's true, that!" +said Duc stolidly. "You never was a real father, Jim." + +"Liddy got to look like me; she got to look like Manette and me, I tell +ye!" said the old man hoarsely. Duc laughed in his stupid way. "Look +like you? Look like you, Jim, with a face to turn milk sour? Ho, ho!" + +Throng rose, his face purple with anger, and made as if to catch Duc by +the throat, but a fit of coughing seized him, and presently blood showed +on his lips. Duc, with a rough gentleness, wiped off the blood and put +the whisky-and-herbs to the sick man's lips, saying, in a fatherly way: + +"For why you do like that? You're a fool, Jimmy!" + +"I be, I be," said the old man in a whisper, and let his hand rest on +Duc's shoulder. + +"I'll fix the bread sweet next time, Jimmy." + +"No, no," said the husky voice peevishly. "She'll do it--Liddy'll do it. +Liddy's comin'." + +"All right, Jimmy. All right." + +After a moment Throng shook his head feebly and said, scarcely above a +whisper: + +"But I be a durn fool--when she's not here." + +Duc nodded and gave him more whisky and herbs. "My feet's cold," said +the old man, and Duc wrapped a bearskin round his legs. + + + +II + +For miles Pierre and Halby rode without a word. Then they got down and +walked for a couple of miles, to bring the blood into their legs again. + +"The old man goes to By-by bientot," said Pierre at last. + +"You don't think he'll last long?" + +"Maybe ten days; maybe one. If we don't get the girl, out goes his +torchlight straight." + +"She's been very good to him." + +"He's been on his knees to her all her life." + +"There'll be trouble out of this, though." + +"Pshaw! The girl is her own master." + +"I mean, someone will probably get hurt over there." He nodded in the +direction of Fort O'Battle. + +"That's in the game. The girl is worth fighting for, hein?" + +"Of course, and the law must protect her. It's a free country." + +"So true, my captain," murmured Pierre drily. "It is wonderful what a +man will do for the law." + +The tone struck Halby. Pierre was scanning the horizon abstractedly. + +"You are always hitting at the law," he said. "Why do you stand by it +now?" + +"For the same reason as yourself." + +"What is that?" + +"She has your picture in her room, she has my lucky dollar in her +pocket." + +Halby's face flushed, and then he turned and looked steadily into +Pierre's eyes. + +"We'd better settle this thing at once. If you're going to Fort O'Battle +because you've set your fancy there, you'd better go back now. That's +straight. You and I can't sail in the same boat. I'll go alone, so give +me the pistol." + +Pierre laughed softly, and waved the hand back. "T'sh! What a +high-cock-a-lorum! You want to do it all yourself--to fill the eye of +the girl alone, and be tucked away to By-by for your pains--mais, quelle +folie! See: you go for law and love; I go for fun and Jimmy Throng. The +girl? Pshaw! she would come out right in the end, without you or me. But +the old man with half a lung--that's different. He must have sweet bread +in his belly when he dies, and the girl must make it for him. She shall +brush her hair with the ivory brush by Sunday morning." + +Halby turned sharply. + +"You've been spying," he said. "You've been in her room--you--" + +Pierre put out his hand and stopped the word on Halby's lips. + +"Slow, slow," he said; "we are both--police to-day. Voila! we must not +fight. There is Throng and the girl to think of." Suddenly, with a soft +fierceness, he added: "If I looked in her room, what of that? In all the +North is there a woman to say I wrong her? No. Well, what if I carry her +room in my eye; does that hurt her or you?" + +Perhaps something of the loneliness of the outlaw crept into Pierre's +voice for an instant, for Halby suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and +said: "Let's drop the thing, Pierre." + +Pierre looked at him musingly. + +"When Throng is put to By-by what will you do?" he asked. + +"I will marry her, if she'll have me." + +"But she is prairie-born, and you!" + +"I'm a prairie-rider." + +After a moment Pierre said, as if to himself: "So quiet and clean, and +the print calico and muslin, and the ivory brush!" + +It is hard to say whether he was merely working on Halby that he be true +to the girl, or was himself softhearted for the moment. He had a +curious store of legend and chanson, and he had the Frenchman's power +of applying them, though he did it seldom. But now he said in a half +monotone: + + "Have you seen the way I have built my nest? + (O brave and tall is the Grand Seigneur!) + I have trailed the East, I have searched the West, + (O clear of eye is the Grand Seigneur!) + From South and North I have brought the best: + The feathers fine from an eagle's crest, + The silken threads from a prince's vest, + The warm rose-leaf from a maiden's breast + (O long he bideth, the Grand Seigneur!)." + +They had gone scarce a mile farther when Pierre, chancing to turn round, +saw a horseman riding hard after them. They drew up, and soon the man--a +Rider of the Plains--was beside them. He had stopped at Throng's to find +Halby, and had followed them. Murder had been committed near the border, +and Halby was needed at once. Halby stood still, numb with distress, for +there was Lydia. He turned to Pierre in dismay. Pierre's face lighted +up with the spirit of fresh adventure. Desperate enterprises roused him; +the impossible had a charm for him. + +"I will go to Fort O'Battle," he said. "Give me another pistol." + +"You cannot do it alone," said Halby, hope, however, in his voice. + +"I will do it, or it will do me, voila!" Pierre replied. Halby passed +over a pistol. + +"I'll never forget it, on my honour, if you do it," he said. + +Pierre mounted his horse and said, as if a thought had struck him: "If I +stand for the law in this, will you stand against it some time for me?" + +Halby hesitated, then said, holding out his hand, "Yes, if it's nothing +dirty." + +Pierre smiled. "Clean tit for clean tat," he said, touching Halby's +fingers, and then, with a gesture and an au revoir, put his horse to the +canter, and soon a surf of snow was rising at two points on the prairie, +as the Law trailed south and east. + +That night Pierre camped in the Jim-a-long-Jo, finding there firewood in +plenty, and Tophet was made comfortable in the lean-to. Within another +thirty hours he was hid in the woods behind Fort O'Battle, having +travelled nearly all night. He saw the dawn break and the beginning of +sunrise as he watched the Fort, growing every moment colder, while his +horse trembled and whinnied softly, suffering also. At last he gave a +little grunt of satisfaction, for he saw two men come out of the Fort +and go to the corral. He hesitated a minute longer, then said: "I'll not +wait," patted his horse's neck, pulled the blanket closer round him, and +started for the Fort. He entered the yard--it was empty. He went to the +door of the Fort, opened it, entered, shut it, locked it softly, and put +the key in his pocket. Then he passed through into a room at the end of +the small hallway. Three men rose from seats by the fire as he did so, +and one said: "Hullo, who're you?" Another added: "It's Pretty Pierre." + +Pierre looked at the table laid for breakfast, and said: "Where's Lydia +Throng?" + +The elder of the three brothers replied: "There's no Lydia Throng here. +There's Lydia Bontoff, though, and in another week she'll be Lydia +something else." + +"What does she say about it herself?" + +"You've no call to know." + +"You stole her, forced her from Throng's-her father's house." + +"She wasn't Throng's; she was a Bontoff--sister of us. + +"Well, she says Throng, and Throng it's got to be." + +"What have you got to say about it?" + +At that moment Lydia appeared at the door leading from the kitchen. + +"Whatever she has to say," answered Pierre. + +"Who're you talking for?" + +"For her, for Throng, for the law." + +"The law--by gosh, that's good! You, you darned gambler; you scum!" said +Caleb, the brother who knew him. + +Pierre showed all the intelligent, resolute coolness of a trained +officer of the law. He heard a little cry behind him, and stepping +sideways, and yet not turning his back on the men, he saw Lydia. + +"Pierre! Pierre!" she said in a half-frightened way, yet with a sort of +pleasure lighting up her face; and she stepped forward to him. One of +the brothers was about to pull her away, but Pierre whipped out his +commission. "Wait," he said. "That's enough. I'm for the law; I belong +to the mounted police. I have come for the girl you stole." + +The elder brother snatched the paper and read. Then he laughed loud and +long. "So you've come to fetch her away," he said, "and this is how you +do it!"--he shook the paper. "Well, by--" Suddenly he stopped. "Come," +he said, "have a drink, and don't be a dam' fool. She's our sister,--old +Throng stole her, and she's goin' to marry our partner. Here, Caleb, +fish out the brandy-wine," he added to his younger brother, who went to +a cupboard and brought the bottle. + +Pierre, waving the liquor away, said quietly to the girl: "You wish +to go back to your father, to Jimmy Throng?" He then gave her Throng's +message, and added: "He sits there rocking in the big chair and +coughing--coughing! And then there's the picture on the wall upstairs +and the little ivory brush--" + +She put out her hands towards him. "I hate them all here," she said. "I +never knew them. They forced me away. I have no father but Jimmy Throng. +I will not stay," she flashed out in sudden anger to the others; "I'll +kill myself and all of you before I marry that Borotte." + +Pierre could hear a man tramping about upstairs. Caleb knocked on +the stove-pipe, and called to him to come down. Pierre guessed it was +Borotte. This would add one more factor to the game. He must move at +once. He suddenly slipped a pistol into the girl's hand, and with a +quick word to her, stepped towards the door. The elder brother sprang +between--which was what he looked for. By this time every man had a +weapon showing, snatched from wall and shelf. + +Pierre was cool. He said: "Remember, I am for the law. I am not one man. +You are thieves now; if you fight and kill, you will get the rope, every +one. Move from the door, or I'll fire. The girl comes with me." He had +heard a door open behind him, now there was an oath and a report, and a +bullet grazed his cheek and lodged in the wall beyond. He dared not turn +round, for the other men were facing him. He did not move, but the girl +did. "Coward!" she said, and raised her pistol at Borotte, standing with +her back against Pierre's. + +There was a pause, in which no one stirred, and then the girl, slowly +walking up to Borotte, her pistol levelled, said: "You low coward--to +shoot a man from behind; and you want to be a decent girl's husband! +These men that say they're my brothers are brutes, but you're a sneak. +If you stir a step I'll fire." + +The cowardice of Borotte was almost ridiculous. He dared not harm the +girl, and her brothers could not prevent her harming him. Here there +came a knocking at the front door. The other brothers had come, and +found it locked. Pierre saw the crisis, and acted instantly. "The girl +and I--we will fight you to the end," he said, "and then what's left of +you the law will fight to the end. Come," he added, "the old man can't +live a week. When he's gone then you can try again. She will have what +he owns. Quick, or I arrest you all, and then--" + +"Let her go," said Borotte; "it ain't no use." Presently the elder +brother broke out laughing. "Damned if I thought the girl had the pluck, +an' damned if I thought Borotte was a crawler. Put an eye out of him, +Liddy, an' come to your brother's arms. Here," he added to the others, +"up with your popguns; this shindy's off; and the girl goes back till +the old man tucks up. Have a drink," he added to Pierre, as he stood his +rifle in a corner and came to the table. + +In half an hour Pierre and the girl were on their way, leaving Borotte +quarrelling with the brothers, and all drinking heavily. The two arrived +at Throng's late the next afternoon. There had been a slight thaw during +the day, and the air was almost soft, water dripping from the eaves down +the long icicles. + +When Lydia entered, the old man was dozing in his chair. The sound of +an axe out behind the house told where Duc was. The whisky-and-herbs +was beside the sick man's chair, and his feet were wrapped about with +bearskins. The girl made a little gesture of pain, and then stepped +softly over and, kneeling, looked into Throng's face. The lips were +moving. + +"Dad," she said, "are you asleep?" + +"I be a durn fool, I be," he said in a whisper, and then he began to +cough. She took his' hands. They were cold, and she rubbed them softly. +"I feel so a'mighty holler," he said, gasping, "an' that bread's sour +agin." He shook his head pitifully. + +His eyes at last settled on her, and he recognised her. He broke into a +giggling laugh; the surprise was almost too much for his feeble mind and +body. His hands reached and clutched hers. "Liddy! Liddy!" he whispered, +then added peevishly, "the bread's sour, an' the boneset and camomile's +no good.... Ain't tomorrow bakin'-day?" he added. + +"Yes, dad," she said, smoothing his hands. + +"What damned--liars--they be--Liddy! You're my gel, ain't ye?" + +"Yes, dad. I'll make some boneset liquor now." + +"Yes, yes," he said, with childish eagerness and a weak, wild smile. + +"That's it--that's it." + +She was about to rise, but he caught her shoulder. "I bin a good dad to +ye, hain't I, Liddy?" he whispered. + +"Always." + +"Never had no ma but Manette, did ye?" + +"Never, dad." + +"What danged liars they be!" he said, chuckling. She kissed him, and +moved away to the fire to pour hot water and whisky on the herbs. + +His eyes followed her proudly, shining like wet glass in the sun. He +laughed--such a wheezing, soundless laugh! + +"He! he! he! I ain't no--durn--fool--bless--the Lord!" he said. + +Then the shining look in his eyes became a grey film, and the girl +turned round suddenly, for the long, wheezy breathing had stopped. She +ran to him, and, lifting up his head, saw the look that makes even the +fool seem wise in his cold stillness. Then she sat down on the floor, +laid her head against the arm of his chair, and wept. + +It was very quiet inside. From without there came the twang of an axe, +and a man's voice talking to his horse. When the man came in, he lifted +the girl up, and, to comfort her, bade her go look at a picture hanging +in her little room. After she was gone he lifted the body, put it on a +couch, and cared for it. + + + + +THE PLUNDERER + +It was no use: men might come and go before her, but Kitty Cline had +eyes for only one man. Pierre made no show of liking her, and thought, +at first, that hers was a passing fancy. He soon saw differently. There +was that look in her eyes which burns conviction as deep as the furnace +from which it comes: the hot, shy, hungering look of desire; most +childlike, painfully infinite. He would rather have faced the cold mouth +of a pistol; for he felt how it would end. He might be beyond wish to +play the lover, but he knew that every man can endure being loved. He +also knew that some are possessed--a dream, a spell, what you will--for +their life long. Kitty Cline was one of these. + +He thought he must go away, but he did not. From the hour he decided to +stay misfortune began. Willie Haslam, the clerk at the Company's Post, +had learned a trick or two at cards in the east, and imagined that +he could, as he said himself, "roast the cock o' the roost"--meaning +Pierre. He did so for one or two evenings, and then Pierre had a sudden +increase of luck (or design), and the lad, seeing no chance of redeeming +the I O U, representing two years' salary, went down to the house where +Kitty Cline lived, and shot himself on the door-step. + +He had had the misfortune to prefer Kitty to the other girls at Guidon +Hill--though Nellie Sanger would have been as much to him, if Kitty had +been easier to win. The two things together told hard against Pierre. +Before, he might have gone; in the face of difficulty he certainly would +not go. Willie Haslam's funeral was a public function: he was young, +innocent-looking, handsome, and the people did not know what Pierre +would not tell now--that he had cheated grossly at cards. Pierre was +sure, before Liddall, the surveyor, told him, that a movement was apace +to give him trouble--possibly fatal. + +"You had better go," said Liddall. "There's no use tempting Providence." + +"They are tempting the devil," was the cool reply; "and that is not all +joy, as you shall see." + +He stayed. For a time there was no demonstration on either side. He +came and went through the streets, and was found at his usual haunts, to +observers as cool and nonchalant as ever. He was a changed man, however. +He never got away from the look in Kitty Cline's eyes. He felt the thing +wearing on him, and he hesitated to speculate on the result; but he +knew vaguely that it would end in disaster. There is a kind of corrosion +which eats the granite out of the blood, and leaves fever. + +"What is the worst thing that can happen a man, eh?" he said to Liddall +one day, after having spent a few minutes with Kitty Cline. + +Liddall was an honest man. He knew the world tolerably well. In +writing once to his partner in Montreal he had spoken of Pierre as "an +admirable, interesting scoundrel." Once when Pierre called him "mon +ami," and asked him to come and spend an evening in his cottage, he +said: + +"Yes, I will go. But--pardon me--not as your friend. Let us be plain +with each other. I never met a man of your stamp before--" + +"A professional gambler--yes? Bien?" + +"You interest me; I like you; you have great cleverness--" + +"A priest once told me I had a great brain-there is a difference. Well?" + +"You are like no man I ever met before. Yours is a life like none I +ever knew. I would rather talk with you than with any other man in the +country, and yet--" + +"And yet you would not take me to your home? That is all right. I expect +nothing. I accept the terms. I know what I am and what you are. I like +men who are square. You would go out of your way to do me a good turn." + +It was on his tongue to speak of Katy Cline, but he hesitated: it was +not fair to the girl, he thought, though what he had intended was for +her good. He felt he had no right to assume that Liddall knew how things +were. The occasion slipped by. + +But the same matter had been in his mind when, later, he asked, "What is +the worst thing that can happen to a man?" + +Liddall looked at him long, and then said: "To stand between two fires." + +Pierre smiled: it was an answer after his own heart. Liddall remembered +it very well in the future. + +"What is the thing to do in such a case?" Pierre asked. + +"It is not good to stand still." + +"But what if you are stunned, or do not care?" + +"You should care. It is not wise to strain a situation." + +Pierre rose, walked up and down the room once or twice, then stood +still, his arms folded, and spoke in a low tone. "Once in the Rockies I +was lost. I crept into a cave at night. I knew it was the nest of some +wild animal; but I was nearly dead with hunger and fatigue. I fell +asleep. When I woke--it was towards morning--I saw two yellow stars +glaring where the mouth of the cave had been. They were all hate: like +nothing you could imagine: passion as it is first made--yes. There was +also a rumbling sound. It was terrible, and yet I was not scared. Hate +need not disturb you.--I am a quick shot. I killed that mountain lion, +and I ate the haunch of deer I dragged from under her...." + +He turned now, and, facing the doorway, looked out upon the village, to +the roof of a house which they both knew. "Hate," he said, "is not the +most wonderful thing. I saw a woman look once as though she could lose +the whole world--and her own soul. She was a good woman. The man was +bad--most: he never could be anything else. A look like that breaks the +nerve. It is not amusing. In time the man goes to pieces. But before +that comes he is apt to do strange things. Eh-so!" + +He sat down, and, with his finger, wrote musingly in the dust upon the +table. + +Liddall looked keenly at him, and replied more brusquely than he felt: +"Do you think it fair to stay--fair to her?" + +"What if I should take her with me?" Pierre flashed a keen, searching +look after the words. + +"It would be useless devilry." + +"Let us drink," said Pierre, as he came to his feet quickly: "then for +the House of Lords" (the new and fashionable tavern). + +They separated in the street, and Pierre went to the House of Lords +alone. He found a number of men gathered before a paper pasted on a +pillar of the veranda. Hearing his own name, he came nearer. A ranch man +was reading aloud an article from a newspaper printed two hundred miles +away. The article was headed, "A Villainous Plunderer." It had been +written by someone at Guidon Hill. All that was discreditable in +Pierre's life it set forth with rude clearness; he was credited with +nothing pardonable. In the crowd there were mutterings unmistakable to +Pierre. He suddenly came among them, caught a revolver from his pocket, +and shot over the reader's shoulder six times into the pasted strip of +newspaper. + +The men dropped back. They were not prepared for warlike measures at +the moment. Pierre leaned his back against the pillar and waited. His +silence and coolness, together with an iron fierceness in his face, held +them from instant demonstration against him; but he knew that he must +face active peril soon. He pocketed his revolver and went up the hill +to the house of Kitty Cline's mother. It was the first time he had ever +been there. At the door he hesitated, but knocked presently, and was +admitted by Kitty, who, at sight of him, turned faint with sudden joy, +and grasped the lintel to steady herself. + +Pierre quietly caught her about the waist, and shut the door. She +recovered, and gently disengaged herself. He made no further advance, +and they stood looking at each other for a minute: he, as one who had +come to look at something good he was never to see again; she, as at +something she hoped to see for ever. They had never before been where no +eyes could observe them. He ruled his voice to calmness. + +"I am going away," he said, "and I have come to say good-bye." + +Her eyes never wavered from his. Her voice was scarce above a whisper. + +"Why do you go? Where are you going?" + +"I have been here too long. I am what they call a villain and a +plunderer. I am going to-mon Dieu, I do not know!" He shrugged his +shoulders, and smiled with a sort of helpless disdain. + +She leaned her hands on the table before her. Her voice was still that +low, clear murmur. + +"What people say doesn't matter." She staked her all upon her words. +She must speak them, though she might hate herself afterwards. "Are you +going--alone?" + +"Where I may have to go I must travel alone." + +He could not meet her eyes now; he turned his head away. He almost hoped +she would not understand. "Sit down," he added; "I want to tell you of +my life." + +He believed that telling it as he should, she would be horror-stricken, +and that the deep flame would die out of her eyes. Neither he nor she +knew how long they sat there, he telling with grim precision of the life +he had led. Her hands were clasped before her, and she shuddered once or +twice, so that he paused; but she asked him firmly to go on. + +When all was told he stood up. He could not see her face, but he heard +her say: + +"You have forgotten many things that were not bad. Let me say them." +She named things that would have done honour to a better man. He was +standing in the moonlight that came through the window. She stepped +forward, her hands quivering out to him. "Oh, Pierre," she said, "I know +why you tell me this: but it makes no difference-none! I will go with +you wherever you go." + +He caught her hands in his. She was stronger than he was now. Her eyes +mastered him. A low cry broke from him, and he drew her almost fiercely +into his arms. + +"Pierre! Pierre!" was all she could say. + +He kissed her again and again upon the mouth. As he did so, he heard +footsteps and muffled voices without. Putting her quickly from him, he +sprang towards the door, threw it open, closed it behind him, and drew +his revolvers. A half-dozen men faced him. Two bullets whistled by his +head, and lodged in the door. Then he fired swiftly, shot after shot, +and three men fell. His revolvers were empty. There were three men left. +The case seemed all against him now, but just here a shot, and then +another, came from the window, and a fourth man fell. Pierre sprang upon +one, the other turned and ran. There was a short sharp struggle: then +Pierre rose up--alone. + +The girl stood in the doorway. "Come, my dear," he said, "you must go +with me now." + +"Yes, Pierre," she cried, a mad light in her face, "I have killed men +too--for you." + +Together they ran down the hillside, and made for the stables of the +Fort. People were hurrying through the long street of the town, and +torches were burning, but they came by a roundabout to the stables +safely. Pierre was about to enter, when a man came out. It was Liddall. +He kept his horses there, and he had saddled one, thinking that Pierre +might need it. + +There were quick words of explanation, and then, "Must the girl go too?" +he asked. "It will increase the danger--besides--" + +"I am going wherever he goes," she interrupted hoarsely. "I have killed +men; he and I are the same now." + +Without a word Liddall turned back, threw a saddle on another horse, and +led it out quickly. "Which way?" he asked; "and where shall I find the +horses?" + +"West to the mountains. The horses you will find at Tete Blanche Hill, +if we get there. If not, there is money under the white pine at my +cottage. Goodbye!" + +They galloped away. But there were mounted men in the main street, and +one, well ahead of the others, was making towards the bridge over +which they must pass. He reached it before they did, and set his horse +crosswise in its narrow entrance. Pierre urged his mare in front of the +girl's, and drove straight at the head and shoulders of the obstructing +horse. His was the heavier animal, and it bore the other down. The rider +fired as he fell, but missed, and, in an instant, Pierre and the girl +were over. The fallen man fired the second time, but again missed. They +had a fair start, but the open prairie was ahead of them, and there was +no chance to hide. Riding must do all, for their pursuers were in full +cry. For an hour they rode hard. They could see their hunters not very +far in the rear. Suddenly Pierre started and sniffed the air. + +"The prairie's on fire," he said exultingly, defiantly. Almost as he +spoke, clouds ran down the horizon, and then the sky lighted up. The +fire travelled with incredible swiftness: they were hastening to meet +it. It came on wave-like, hurrying down at the right and the left as +if to close in on them. The girl spoke no word; she had no fear: what +Pierre did she would do. He turned round to see his pursuers: they had +wheeled and were galloping back the way they came. His horse and hers +were travelling neck and neck. He looked at her with an intense, eager +gaze. + +"Will you ride on?" he asked eagerly. "We are between two fires." He +smiled, remembering his words to Liddall. + +"Ride on," she urged in a strong, clear voice, a kind of wild triumph in +it. "You shall not go alone." + +There ran into his eyes now the same infinite look that had been in +hers--that had conquered him. The flame rolling towards them was not +brighter or hotter. + +"For heaven or hell, my girl!" he cried, and they drove their horses +on--on. + +Far behind upon a Divide the flying hunters from Guidon Hill paused for +a moment. They saw with hushed wonder and awe a man and woman, dark +and weird against the red light, ride madly into the flickering surf of +fire. + + + ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + + A human life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of time + Advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth + All humour in him had a strain of the sardonic + Bad turns good sometimes, when you know the how + Don't be too honest + Every shot that kills ricochets + Fear of one's own wife is the worst fear in the world + Have you ever felt the hand of your own child in yours + He never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it + How can you judge the facts if you don't know the feeling? + In her heart she never can defy the world as does a man + Liars all men may be, but that's wid wimmin or landlords + Memory is man's greatest friend and worst enemy + Men are like dogs--they worship him who beats them + Not good to have one thing in the head all the time + Put the matter on your own hearthstone + Remember the sorrow of thine own wife + Secret of life: to keep your own commandments + She valued what others found useless + She had not suffered that sickness, social artifice + Solitude fixes our hearts immovably on things + Some people are rough with the poor--and proud + Some wise men are fools, one way or another + They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly + Think with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman + When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil + Women are half saints, half fools + Youth hungers for the vanities + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Romany of the Snows, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMANY OF THE SNOWS *** + +***** This file should be named 6185.txt or 6185.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/8/6185/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..55d1acd --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #6185 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6185) diff --git a/old/gp13w10.txt b/old/gp13w10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dbe04c4 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/gp13w10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10644 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook Romany Of The Snows, Complete, by Parker +#13 in our series by Gilbert Parker + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: Romany of the Snows, Continuation of "Pierre and His People" + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: July, 2004 [EBook #6185] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on August 31, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMANY OF THE SNOWS, ALL, BY PARKER *** + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + +[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the +file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an +entire meal of them. D.W.] + + + + + +A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS, Complete + +BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE" +AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE + +By Gilbert Parker + + + + +CONTENTS + +Volume 1. +ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS +A LOVELY BULLY +THE FILIBUSTER +THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING + +Volume 2. +MALACHI +THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE +THE RED PATROL +THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN +AT BAMBER'S BOOM + +Volume 3. +THE BRIDGE HOUSE +THE EPAULETTES +THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER +THE FINDING OF FINGALL +THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE + +Volume 4. +LITTLE BABICHE +AT POINT O' BUGLES +THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA +THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS +THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR + +Volume 5. +THE CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" +A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS +THE PLUNDERER + + + + + To SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE. + + MY DEAR SIR WILLIAM, + + To the public it will seem fitting that these new tales of "Pierre + and His People" should be inscribed to one whose notable career is + inseparably associated with the life and development of the Far + North. + + But there is a deeper and more personal significance in this + dedication, for some of the stories were begotten in late gossip by + your fireside; and furthermore, my little book is given a kind of + distinction, in having on its fore-page the name of one well known + as a connoisseur of art and a lover of literature. + + Believe me, + + DEAR SIR WILLIAM, + + Sincerely yours, + + GILBERT PARKER. + + 7 PARK PLACE. + ST. JAMES'S. + LONDON. S. W. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +It can hardly be said that there were two series of Pierre stories. +There never was but one series, in fact. Pierre moved through all the +thirty-nine stories of Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows +without any thought on my part of putting him out of existence in one +series and bringing him to life again in another. The publication of the +stories was continuous, and at the time that Pierre and His People +appeared several of those which came between the covers of A Romany of +the Snows were passing through the pages of magazines in England and +America. All of the thirty-nine stories might have appeared in one +volume under the title of Pierre and His People, but they were published +in two volumes with different titles in England, and in three volumes in +America, simply because there was enough material for the two and the +three volumes. In America The Adventurer of the North was broken up into +two volumes at the urgent request of my then publishers, Messrs. Stone & +Kimball, who had the gift of producing beautiful books, but perhaps had +not the same gift of business. These two American volumes succeeding +Pierre were published under the title of An Adventurer of the North and A +Romany of the Snows respectively. Now, the latter title, A Romany of the +Snows, was that which I originally chose for the volume published in +England as An Adventurer of the North. I was persuaded to reject the +title, A Romany of the Snows, by my English publisher, and I have never +forgiven myself since for being so weak. If a publisher had the +infallible instinct for these things he would not be a publisher-- +he would be an author; and though an author may make mistakes like +everybody else, the average of his hits will be far higher than the +average of his misses in such things. The title, An Adventurer of the +North, is to my mind cumbrous and rough, and difficult in the mouth. +Compare it with some of the stories within the volume itself: for +instance, The Going of the White Swan, A Lovely Bully, At Bamber's Boom, +At Point o' Bugles, The Pilot of Belle Amour, The Spoil of the Puma, A +Romany of the Snows, and The Finding of Fingall. There it was, however; +I made the mistake and it sticks; but the book now will be published in +this subscription edition under the title first chosen by me, A Romany of +the Snows. It really does express what Pierre was. + +Perhaps some of the stories in A Romany of the Snows have not the +sentimental simplicity of some of the earlier stories in Pierre and His +People, which take hold where a deeper and better work might not seize +the general public; but, reading these later stories after twenty years, +I feel that I was moving on steadily to a larger, firmer command of my +material, and was getting at closer grips with intimate human things. +There is some proof of what I say in the fact that one of the stories in +A Romany of the Snows, called The Going of the White Swan, appropriately +enough published originally in Scribner's Magazine, has had an +extraordinary popularity. It has been included in the programmes of +reciters from the Murrumbidgee to the Vaal, from John O'Groat's to Land's +End, and is now being published as a separate volume in England and +America. It has been dramatised several times, and is more alive to-day +than it was when it was published nearly twenty years ago. Almost the +same may be said of The Three Commandments in the Vulgar Tongue. + +It has been said that, apart from the colour, form, and setting, the +incidents of these Pierre stories might have occurred anywhere. That +is true beyond a doubt, and it exactly represents my attitude of mind. +Every human passion, every incident springing out of a human passion +to-day, had its counterpart in the time of Amenhotep. The only +difference is in the setting, is in the language or dialect which +is the vehicle of expression, and in race and character, which are the +media of human idiosyncrasy. There is nothing new in anything that one +may write, except the outer and visible variation of race, character, and +country, which reincarnates the everlasting human ego and its scena. + +The atmosphere of a story or novel is what temperament is to a man. +Atmosphere cannot be created; it is not a matter of skill; it is a matter +of personality, of the power of visualisation, of feeling for the thing +which the mind sees. It has been said that my books possess atmosphere. +This has often been said when criticism has been more or less acute upon +other things; but I think that in all my experience there has never been +a critic who has not credited my books with that quality; and I should +say that Pierre and His People and A Romany of the Snows have an +atmosphere in which the beings who make the stories live seem natural to +their environment. It is this quality which gives vitality to the +characters themselves. Had I not been able to create atmosphere which +would have given naturalness to Pierre and his friends, some of the +characters, and many of the incidents, would have seemed monstrosities +--melodramatic episodes merely. The truth is, that while the episode, +which is the first essential of a short story, was always in the very +forefront of my imagination, the character or characters in the episode +meant infinitely more to me. To my mind the episode was always the +consequence of character. That almost seems a paradox; but apart from +the phenomena of nature, as possible incidents in a book, the episodes +which make what are called "human situations" are, in most instances, the +sequence of character and are incidental to the law of the character set +in motion. As I realise it now, subconsciously, my mind and imagination +were controlled by this point of view in the days of the writing of +Pierre and His People. + +In the life and adventures of Pierre and his people I came, as I think, +to a certain command of my material, without losing real sympathy with +the simple nature of things. Dexterity has its dangers, and one of its +dangers is artificiality. It is very difficult to be skilful and to ring +true. If I have not wholly succeeded in A Romany of the Snows, I think I +have not wholly failed, as the continued appeal of a few of the stories +would seem to show. + + + + +ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS + +"Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands I've seen along the sayshore, +and up to me half-ways I've been in wan, wid a double-and-twist in the +rope to pull me out; but a suckin' sand in the open plain--aw, Trader, +aw! the like o' that niver a bit saw I." + +So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing was talked of in his presence. + +"Well, I tell you it's true, and they're not three miles from Fort +O'Glory. The Company's--[Hudson's Bay Company]--men don't talk about it +--what's the use! Travellers are few that way, and you can't get the +Indians within miles of them. Pretty Pierre knows all about them--better +than anyone else almost. He'll stand by me in it--eh, Pierre?" + +Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adventurer, took no notice, and was +silent for a time, intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mowley the +trapper said: "Pierre's gone back on you, Trader. P'r'aps ye haven't +paid him for the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me--my treat +--that's the game!" + +"Aw, the like o' that," added Macavoy reproachfully. "Aw, yer tongue to +the roof o' yer mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but that's wid +wimmin or landlords. But, Pierre, aff another man's bat like that--aw, +Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o' yer pipe." + +Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he +did so; but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting the +three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment +musingly; then he lit his cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench +where he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire as it were. + +"I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company's post there. It was the fall of +the year, when you feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the +air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like a woman or a priest? +Mais, no. The seasons are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad; in +the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to do. This matter was in the +fall. I felt that I must move. Yet, what to do? There was the thing. +Cards, of course. But that's only for times, not for all seasons. +So I was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse--Tophet, black +as a coal, all raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. His legs +worked like piston-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where to go or +what to do. So we used to sit at the Post loafing: in the daytime +watching the empty plains all panting for travellers, like a young +bride waiting her husband for the first time." + +Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an unctuous spirit, +and his heart was soft for women--so soft that he never had had one on +his conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many. +But that was an amiable weakness in a strong man. "Aw, Pierre," he said +coaxingly, "kape it down; aisy, aisy. Me heart's goin' like a trip- +hammer at thought av it; aw yis, aw yis, Pierre." + +"Well, it was like that to me--all sun and a sweet sting in the air. +At night to sit and tell tales and such things; and perhaps a little +brown brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the cattle--the same +old game. Of course, there was the wife of Hilton the factor--fine, +always fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good friends, Ida and me. +I had a hand in her wedding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little +girl. We could talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she had +never guessed at evil. She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and +understand without words. A face was a book to her. + +"Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing outside the Post, +when we saw someone ride over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes. +I cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut +against the sky, that they looked very large and peculiar--there was +something in the air to magnify. They stopped for a minute on the top of +the Divide, and it seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at +the farthest north--the place of legends. But, of course, it was only a +traveller like ourselves, for in a half-hour she was with us. + +"Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not try to hide it; she +dressed so for ease. She would make a man's heart leap in his mouth-- +if he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley there." + +Pierre's last three words had a touch of irony, for he knew that the +Trapper had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed that +way, and a bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled sourly; +but Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his pipe-stem +luxuriously. + +"Aw now, Pierre--all me little failin's--aw!" he protested. + +Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and, +cherishing his cigarette, presently continued: + +"She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff that she could hardly +get from her horse; and the horse too was ready to drop. Handsome enough +she looked, for all that, in man's clothes and a peaked cap, with a +pistol in her belt. She wasn't big built--just a feathery kind of +sapling--but she was set fair on her legs like a man, and a hand that was +as good as I have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with a horse. +Well, what was the trouble?--for I saw there was trouble. Her eyes had +a hunted look, and her nose breathed like a deer's in the chase. All at +once, when she saw Hilton's wife, a cry came from her and she reached out +her hands. What would women of that sort do? They were both of a kind. +They got into each other's arms. After that there was nothing for us men +but to wait. All women are the same, and Hilton's wife was like the +rest. She must get the secret first; then the men should know. We had +to wait an hour. Then Hilton's wife beckoned to us. We went inside. +The girl was asleep. There was something in the touch of Hilton's wife +like sleep itself--like music. It was her voice--that touch. She could +not speak with her tongue, but her hands and face were words and music. +Bien, there was the girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain; and that +fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet, so quiet. Enfin, the +real story--for how she slept there does not matter--but it was good to +see when we knew the story." + +The Trapper was laughing silently to himself to hear Pierre in this +romantic mood. A woman's hand--it was the game for a boy, not an +adventurer; for the Trapper's only creed was that women, like deer, were +spoils for the hunter. Pierre's keen eye noted this, but he was above +petty anger. He merely said: "If a man have an eye to see behind the +face, he understands the foolish laugh of a man, or the hand of a good +woman, and that is much. Hilton's wife told us all. She had rode two +hundred miles from the south-west, and was making for Fort Micah, sixty +miles farther north. For what? She had loved a man against the will of +her people. There had been a feud, and Garrison--that was the lover's +name--was the last on his own side. There was trouble at a Company's +post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. Men say he was right to shoot him, +for a woman's name must be safe up here. Besides, the half-breed drew +first. Well, Garrison was tried, and must go to jail for a year. At the +end of that time he would be free. The girl Janie knew the day. Word +had come to her. She made everything ready. She knew her brothers were +watching--her three brothers and two other men who had tried to get her +love. She knew also that they five would carry on the feud against +the one man. So one night she took the best horse on the ranch and +started away towards Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she got to Guidon +Hill after two days' hard riding--enough to kill a man, and over fifty +yet to do. She was sure her brothers were on her track. But if she +could get to Fort Micah, and be married to Garrison before they came; +she wanted no more. + +"There were only two horses of use at Hilton's Post then; all the rest +were away, or not fit for hard travel. There was my Tophet, and a lean +chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and not an ounce of loose skin on +him. There was but one way: the girl must get there. Allons, what is +the good? What is life without these things? The girl loves the man: +she must have him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and his wife +and me at the Post, and Hilton was lame from a fall, and one arm in a +sling. If the brothers followed, well, Hilton could not interfere-- +he was a Company's man; but for myself, as I said, I was hungry for +adventure, I had an ache in my blood for something. I was tingling to +the toes, my heart was thumping in my throat. All the cords of my legs +were straightening as if I was in the saddle. + +"She slept for three hours. I got the two horses saddled. Who could +tell but she might need help? I had nothing to do; I knew the shortest +way to Fort Micah, every foot--and then it is good to be ready for all +things. I told Hilton's wife what I had done. She was glad. She made a +gesture at me as to a brother, and then began to put things in a bag for +us to carry. She had settled all how it was to be. She had told the +girl. You see, a man may be--what is it they call me?--a plunderer, and +yet a woman will trust him, comme ca!" + +"Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre; but she knew yer hand and yer tongue niver wint +agin a woman, Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw swate, swate, she was, wid a +heart--a heart, Hilton's wife, aw yis!" + +Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. "The girl waked after three hours +with a start. Her hand caught at her heart. 'Oh,' she said, still +staring at us, 'I thought that they had come!' A little after she and +Hilton's wife went to another room. All at once there was a sound of +horses outside, and then a knock at the door, and four men come in. +They were the girl's hunters. + +"It was hard to tell what to do all in a minute; but I saw at once the +best thing was to act for all, and to get all the men inside the house. +So I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that I was a great man in +the Company. I ordered Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not +giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the old brown brandy, +wondering all the time what could be done. There was no sound from the +other room, though I thought I heard a door open once. Hilton played the +game well, and showed nothing when I ordered him about, and agreed word +for word with me when I said no girl had come, laughing when they told +why they were after her. More than one of them did not believe at first; +but, pshaw, what have I been doing all my life to let such fellows doubt +me? So the end of it was that I got them all inside the house. There +was one bad thing--their horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to +me. They had only rode them a few miles--they had stole or bought them +at the first ranch to the west of the Post. I could not make up my mind +what to do. But it was clear I must keep them quiet till something +shaped. + +"They were all drinking brandy when Hilton's wife come into the room. +Her face was, mon Dieu! so innocent, so childlike. She stared at the +men; and then I told them she was deaf and dumb, and I told her why they +had come. Voila, it was beautiful--like nothing you ever saw. She shook +her head so innocent, and then told them like a child that they were +wicked to chase a girl. I could have kissed her feet. Thunder, how she +fooled them! She said, would they not search the house? She said all +through me, on her fingers and by signs. And I told them at once. But +she told me something else--that the girl had slipped out as the last man +came in, had mounted the chestnut, and would wait for me by the iron +spring, a quarter of a mile away. There was the danger that some one of +the men knew the finger-talk, so she told me this in signs mixed up with +other sentences. + +"Good! There was now but one thing--for me to get away. So I said, +laughing, to one of the men. 'Come, and we will look after the horses, +and the others can search the place with Hilton.' So we went out to +where the horses were tied to the railing, and led them away to the +corral. + +"Of course you will understand how I did it. I clapped a hand on his +mouth, put a pistol at his head, and gagged and tied him. Then I got my +Tophet, and away I went to the spring. The girl was waiting. There were +few words. I gripped her hand, gave her another pistol, and then we got +away on a fine moonlit trail. We had not gone a mile when I heard a +faint yell far behind. My game had been found out. There was nothing to +do but to ride for it now, and maybe to fight. But fighting was not +good; for I might be killed, and then the girl would be caught just the +same. We rode on--such a ride, the horses neck and neck, their hoofs +pounding the prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, a hell-to-split +gait. I knew they were after us, though I saw them but once on the crest +of a Divide about three miles behind. Hour after hour like that, with +ten minutes' rest now and then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We +hardly spoke to each other; but, nom de Dieu! my heart was warm to this +girl who had rode a hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours. Just +before dawn, when I was beginning to think that we should easy win the +race if the girl could but hold out, if it did not kill her, the chestnut +struck a leg into the crack of the prairie, and horse and girl spilt on +the ground together. She could hardly move, she was so weak, and her +face was like death. I put a pistol to the chestnut's head, and ended +it. The girl stooped and kissed the poor beast's neck, but spoke +nothing. As I helped her on my Tophet I put my lips to the sleeve of her +dress. Mother of Heaven! what could a man do--she was so dam' brave. + +"Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at the swell of the prairie over +the Jumping Sandhills. They lay quiet and shining in the green-brown +plain; but I knew that there was a churn beneath which could set those +swells of sand in motion, and make glory-to-God of an army. Who can tell +what it is? A flood under the surface, a tidal river-what? No man +knows. But they are sea monsters on the land. Every morning at sunrise +they begin to eddy and roll--and who ever saw a stranger sight? Bien, I +looked back. There were those four pirates coming on, about three miles +away. What was there to do? The girl and myself on my blown horse were +too much. Then a great idea come to me. I must reach and cross the +Jumping Sandhills before sunrise. It was one deadly chance. + +"When we got to the edge of the sand they were almost a mile behind. I +was all sick to my teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the silt. Sacre, +how I watched the dawn! Slow, slow, we dragged over that velvet powder. +As we reached the farther side I could feel it was beginning to move. +The sun was showing like the lid of an eye along the plain. I looked +back. All four horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards us. By +the time we touched the brown-green prairie on the farther side the sand +was rolling behind us. The girl had not looked back. She seemed too +dazed. I jumped from the horse, and told her that she must push on alone +to the Fort, that Tophet could not carry both, that I should be in no +danger. She looked at me so deep--ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped +and kissed me between the eyes--I have never forgot. I struck Tophet, +and she was gone to her happiness; for before 'lights out!' she reached +the Fort and her lover's arms. + +"But I stood looking back on the Jumping Sandhills. So, was there ever +a sight like that--those hills gone like a smelting-floor, the sunrise +spotting it with rose and yellow, and three horses and their riders +fighting what cannot be fought?--What could I do? They would have got +the girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led them across, and they +would have killed me if they could. Only one cried out, and then but +once, in a long shriek. But after, all three were quiet as they fought, +until they were gone where no man could see, where none cries out so we +can hear. The last thing I saw was a hand stretching up out of the +sands." + +There was a long pause, painful to bear. The Trader sat with eyes fixed +humbly as a dog's on Pierre. At last Macavoy said: "She kissed ye, +Pierre, aw yis, she did that! Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see +her now, Pierre?" + +But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer. + + + + + + +A LOVELY BULLY + +He was seven feet and fat. He came to Fort O'Angel at Hudson's Bay, an +immense slip of a lad, very much in the way, fond of horses, a wonderful +hand at wrestling, pretending a horrible temper, threatening tragedies +for all who differed from him, making the Fort quake with his rich roar, +and playing the game of bully with a fine simplicity. In winter he +fattened, in summer he sweated, at all times he ate eloquently. + +It was a picture to see him with the undercut of a haunch of deer or +buffalo, or with a whole prairie-fowl on his plate, his eyes measuring it +shrewdly, his coat and waistcoat open, and a clear space about him--for +he needed room to stretch his mighty limbs, and his necessity was +recognised by all. + +Occasionally he pretended to great ferocity, but scowl he ever so much, +a laugh kept idling in his irregular bushy beard, which lifted about his +face in the wind like a mane, or made a kind of underbrush through which +his blunt fingers ran at hide-and-seek. + +He was Irish, and his name was Macavoy. In later days, when Fort O'Angel +was invaded by settlers, he had his time of greatest importance. + +He had been useful to the Chief Trader at the Fort in the early days, and +having the run of the Fort and the reach of his knife, was little likely +to discontinue his adherence. But he ate and drank with all the dwellers +at the Post, and abused all impartially. "Malcolm," said he to the +Trader, "Malcolm, me glutton o' the H.B.C., that wants the Far North for +your footstool--Malcolm, you villain, it's me grief that I know you, and +me thumb to me nose in token. "Wiley and Hatchett, the principal +settlers, he abused right and left, and said, "Wasn't there land in the +East and West, that you steal the country God made for honest men--you +robbers o' the wide world! Me tooth on the Book, and I tell you what, +it's only me charity that kapes me from spoilin' ye. For a wink of me +eye, an' away you'd go, leaving your tails behind you--and pass that +shoulder of bear, you pirates, till I come to it sideways, like a hog to +war." + +He was even less sympathetic with Bareback the chief and his braves. +"Sons o' Anak y'are; here today and away to-morrow, like the clods of the +valley--and that's your portion, Bareback. It's the word o' the +Pentytook--in pieces you go, like a potter's vessel. Don't shrug your +shoulders at me, Bareback, you pig, or you'll think that Ballzeboob's +loose on the mat. But take a sup o' this whisky, while you swear wid +your hand on your chest, 'Amin' to the words o' Tim Macavoy." + +Beside Macavoy, Pierre, the notorious, was a child in height. Up to +the time of the half-breed's coming the Irishman had been the most +outstanding man at Fort O'Angel, and was sure of a good-natured homage, +acknowledged by him with a jovial tyranny. + +Pierre put a flea in his ear. He was pensively indifferent to him even +in his most royal moments. He guessed the way to bring down the gusto +and pride of this Goliath, but, for a purpose, he took his own time, +nodding indolently to Macavoy when he met him, but avoiding talk with +him. + +Among the Indian maidens Macavoy was like a king or khan; for they count +much on bulk and beauty, and he answered to their standards--especially +to Wonta's. It was a sight to see him of a summer day, sitting in the +shade of a pine, his shirt open, showing his firm brawny chest, his arms +bare, his face shining with perspiration, his big voice gurgling in his +beard, his eyes rolling amiably upon the maidens as they passed or +gathered near demurely, while he declaimed of mighty deeds in patois +or Chinook to the braves. + +Pierre's humour was of the quietest, most subterranean kind. He knew +that Macavoy had not an evil hair in his head; that vanity was his +greatest weakness, and that through him there never would have been +more half-breed population. There was a tradition that he had a wife +somewhere--based upon wild words he had once said when under the +influence of bad liquor; but he had roared his accuser the lie when the +thing was imputed to him. + +At Fort Ste. Anne Pierre had known an old woman, by name of Kitty Whelan, +whose character was all tatters. She had told him that many years agone +she had had a broth of a lad for a husband; but because of a sharp word +or two across the fire, and the toss of a handful of furniture, he had +left her, and she had seen no more of him. "Tall, like a chimney he +was," said she, "and a chest like a wall, so broad, and a voice like a +huntsman's horn, though only a b'y, an' no hair an his face; an' little I +know whether he is dead or alive; but dead belike, for he's sure to come +rap agin' somethin' that'd kill him; for he, the darlin', was that aisy +and gentle, he wouldn't pull his fightin' iron till he had death in his +ribs." + +Pierre had drawn from her that the name of this man whom she had cajoled +into a marriage (being herself twenty years older), and driven to +deserting her afterwards, was Tim Macavoy. She had married Mr. Whelan on +the assumption that Macavoy was dead. But Mr. Whelan had not the nerve +to desert her, and so he departed this life, very loudly lamented by Mrs. +Whelan, who had changed her name with no right to do so. With his going +her mind dwelt greatly upon the virtues of her mighty vanished Tim: and +ill would it be for Tim if she found him. + +Pierre had travelled to Fort O'Angel almost wholly because he had Tim +Macavoy in his mind: in it Mrs. Whelan had only an incidental part; his +plans journeyed beyond her and her lost consort. He was determined on an +expedition to capture Fort Comfort, which had been abandoned by the great +Company, and was now held by a great band of the Shunup Indians. + +Pierre had a taste for conquest for its own sake, though he had no +personal ambition. The love of adventure was deep in him; he adored +sport for its own sake; he had had a long range of experiences--some +discreditable--and now he had determined on a new field for his talent. + +He would establish a kingdom, and resign it. In that case he must have a +man to take his place. He chose Macavoy. + +First he must humble the giant to the earth, then make him into a great +man again, with a new kind of courage. The undoing of Macavoy seemed a +civic virtue. He had a long talk with Wonta, the Indian maiden most +admired by Macavoy. Many a time the Irishman had cast an ogling, rolling +eye on her, and had talked his loudest within her ear-shot, telling of +splendid things he had done: making himself like another Samson as to +the destruction of men, and a Hercules as to the slaying of cattle. + +Wonta had a sense of humour also, and when Pierre told her what was +required of her, she laughed with a quick little gurgle, and showed as +handsome a set of teeth as the half-breed's; which said much for her. +She promised to do as he wished. So it chanced when Macavoy was at his +favourite seat beneath the pine, talking to a gaping audience, Wonta and +a number of Indian girls passed by. Pierre was leaning against a door +smoking, not far away. Macavoy's voice became louder. + +"'Stand them up wan by wan,' says I, 'and give me a leg loose, and a fist +free; and at that--'" + +"At that there was thunder and fire in the sky, and because the great +Macavoy blew his breath over them they withered like the leaves," cried +Wonta, laughing; but her laugh had an edge. + +Macavoy stopped short, open-mouthed, breathing hard in his great beard. +He was astonished at Wonta's raillery; the more so when she presently +snapped her fingers, and the other maidens, laughing, did the same. Some +of the half-breeds snapped their fingers also in sympathy, and shrugged +their shoulders. Wonta came up to him softly, patted him on the head, +and said: "Like Macavoy there is nobody. He is a great brave. He is not +afraid of a coyote, he has killed prairie-hens in numbers as pebbles by +the lakes. He has a breast like a fat ox,"--here she touched the skin of +his broad chest,--"and he will die if you do not fight him." + +Then she drew back, as though in humble dread, and glided away with the +other maidens, Macavoy staring after her, with a blustering kind of shame +in his face. The half-breeds laughed, and, one by one, they got up, and +walked away also. Macavoy looked round: there was no one near save +Pierre, whose eye rested on him lazily. Macavoy got to his feet, +muttering. This was the first time in his experience at Fort O'Angel +that he had been bluffed--and by a girl; one for whom he had a very soft +place in his big heart. Pierre came slowly over to him. + +"I'd have it out with her," said he. "She called you a bully and a +brag." + +"Out with her?" cried Macavoy. "How can ye have it out wid a woman?" + +"Fight her," said Pierre pensively. + +"Fight her? fight her? Holy smoke! How can you fight a woman?" + +"Why, what--do you--fight?" asked Pierre innocently. + +Macavoy grinned in a wild kind of fashion. "Faith, then, y'are a fool. +Bring on the divil an' all his angels, say I, and I'll fight thim where I +stand." + +Pierre ran his fingers down Macavoy's arm, and said "There's time enough +for that. I'd begin with the five." + +"What five, then?" + +"Her half-breed lovers: Big Eye, One Toe, Jo-John, Saucy Boy, and Limber +Legs." + +"Her lovers? Her lovers, is it? Is there truth on y'r tongue?" + +"Go to her father's tent at sunset, and you'll find one or all of them +there." + +"Oh, is that it?" said the Irishman, opening and shutting his fists. +"Then I'll carve their hearts out, an' ate thim wan by wan this night." + +"Come down to Wiley's," said Pierre; "there's better company there than +here." + +Pierre had arranged many things, and had secured partners in his little +scheme for humbling the braggart. He so worked on the other's good +nature that by the time they reached the settler's place, Macavoy was +stretching himself with a big pride. Seated at Wiley's table, with +Hatchett and others near, and drink going about, someone drew the giant +on to talk, and so deftly and with such apparent innocence did Pierre, by +a word here and a nod there, encourage him, that presently he roared at +Wiley and Hatchett: + +"Ye shameless buccaneers that push your way into the tracks of honest +men, where the Company's been three hundred years by the will o' God-- +if it wasn't for me, ye Jack Sheppards--" + +Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet with pretended rage, saying +he'd insulted them both, that he was all froth and brawn, and giving him +the lie. + +Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only stare, puffing in his beard, and +drawing in his legs, which had been spread out at angles. He looked from +Wiley to the impassive Pierre. "Buccaneers, you callus," Wiley went on; +"well, we'll have no more of that, or there'll be trouble at Fort +O'Angel." + +"Ah, sure y'are only jokin'," said Macavoy, "for I love ye, ye +scoundrels. It's only me fun." + +"For fun like that you'll pay, ruffian!" said Hatchett, bringing down +his fist on the table with a bang. + +Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, but there was nothing of the +coward in his face. "Oh, well," said he, "I'll be goin', for ye've got +y'r teeth all raspin'." + +As he went the two men laughed after him mockingly. "Wind like a bag," +said Hatchett. "Bone like a marrow-fat pea," added Wiley. + +Macavoy was at the door, but at that he turned. "If ye care to sail +agin' that wind, an' gnaw on that bone, I'd not be sayin' you no." + +"Will to-night do--at sunset?" said Wiley. + +"Bedad, then, me b'ys, sunset'll do--an' not more than two at a time," he +added softly, all the roar gone from his throat. Then he went out, +followed by Pierre. + +Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and laughed a little confusedly. +"What's that he said?" muttered Wiley. "Not more than two at a time, +was it?" + +"That was it. I don't know that it's what we bargained for, after all." +He looked round on the other settlers present, who had been awed by the +childlike, earnest note in Macavoy's last words. They shook their heads +now a little sagely; they weren't so sure that Pierre's little game was +so jovial as it had promised. + +Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much from his giant as yet. In a +little while he had got Macavoy back to his old humour. + +"What was I made for but war!" said the Irishman, "an' by war to kape +thim at peace, wherever I am." Soon he was sufficiently restored in +spirits to go with Pierre to Bareback's lodge, where, sitting at the tent +door, with idlers about, he smoked with the chief and his braves. Again +Pierre worked upon him adroitly, and again he became loud in speech, and +grandly patronising. + +"I've stood by ye like a father, ye loafers," he said, "an' I give you my +word, ye howlin' rogues--" + +Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came up suddenly from the ground, +and the chief said fiercely: "You speak crooked things. We are no +rogues. We will fight." + +Macavoy's face ran red to his hair. He scratched his head a little +foolishly, and gathered himself up. "Sure, 'twas only me tasin', +darlins," he said, "but I'll be comin' again, when y'are not so narvis." +He turned to go away. + +Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the Indian touched the giant on the +arm. "Will you fight?" said he. + +"Not all o' ye at once," said Macavoy slowly, running his eye carefully +along the half-dozen; "not more than three at a toime," he added with a +simple sincerity, his voice again gone like the dove's. "At what time +will it be convaynyint for ye?" he asked. + +"At sunset," said the chief, "before the Fort." Macavoy nodded and +walked away with Pierre, whose glance of approval at the Indians did +not make them thoroughly happy. + +To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He had already three engagements +of violence for sunset. Pierre directed their steps by a roundabout to +the Company's stores, and again there was a distinct improvement in the +giant's spirits. Here at least he could be himself, he thought, here no +one should say him nay. As if nerved by the idea, he plunged at once +into boisterous raillery of the Chief Trader. "Oh, ho," he began, "me +freebooter, me captain av the looters av the North!" The Trader snarled +at him. "What d'ye mean, by such talk to me, sir? I've had enough-- +we've all had enough--of your brag and bounce; for you're all sweat and +swill-pipe, and I give you this for your chewing, that though by the +Company's rules I can't go out and fight you, you may have your pick of +my men for it. I'll take my pay for your insults in pounded flesh--Irish +pemmican!" + +Macavoy's face became mottled with sudden rage. He roared, as, perhaps, +he had never roared before: "Are ye all gone mad-mad-mad? I was jokin' +wid ye, whin I called ye this or that. But by the swill o' me pipe, and +the sweat o' me skin, I'll drink the blood o' yees, Trader, me darlin'. +An' all I'll ask is, that ye mate me to-night whin the rest o' the pack +is in front o' the Fort--but not more than four o' yees at a time--for +little scrawney rats as y'are, too many o' yees wad be in me way." He +wheeled and strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently. + +"He's a great bully that, isn't he, Trader? There'll be fun in front of +the Fort to-night. For he's only bragging, of course--eh?" + +The Trader nodded with no great assurance, and then Pierre said as a +parting word: "You'll be there, of course--only four av ye!" and hurried +out after Macavoy, humming to himself-- + + "For the King said this, and the Queen said that, + But he walked away with their army, O!" + +So far Pierre's plan had worked even better than he expected, though +Macavoy's moods had not been altogether after his imaginings. He drew +alongside the giant, who had suddenly grown quiet again. Macavoy turned +and looked down at Pierre with the candour of a schoolboy, and his voice +was very low: + +"It's a long time ago, I'm thinkin'," he said, "since I lost me frinds-- +ages an' ages ago. For me frinds are me inimies now, an' that makes a +man old. But I'll not say that it cripples his arm or humbles his back." +He drew his arm up once or twice and shot it out straight into the air +like a catapult. "It's all right," he added, very softly, "an', Half- +breed, me b'y, if me frinds have turned inimies, why, I'm thinkin' me +inimy has turned frind, for that I'm sure you were, an' this I'm certain +y 'are. So here's the grip av me fist, an' y'll have it." Pierre +remembered that disconcerting, iron grip of friendship for many a day. +He laughed to himself to think how he was turning the braggart into a +warrior. "Well," said Pierre, "what about those five at Wonta's tent?" + +"I'll be there whin the sun dips below the Little Red Hill," he said, as +though his thoughts were far away, and he turned his face towards Wonta's +tent. Presently he laughed out loud. "It's manny along day," he said, +"since--" + +Then he changed his thoughts. "They've spoke sharp words in me teeth," +he continued, "and they'll pay for it. Bounce! sweat! brag! wind! is it? +There's dancin' beyant this night, me darlins!" + +"Are you sure you'll not run away when they come on?" said Pierre, a +little ironically. + +"Is that the word av a frind?" replied Macavoy, a hand fumbling in his +hair. + +"Did you never run away when faced?" Pierre asked pitilessly. + +"I never turned tail from a man, though, to be sure, it's been more talk +than fight up here: Fort Ste. Anne's been but a graveyard for fun these +years." + +"Eh, well," persisted Pierre, "but did you never turn tail from a slip of +a woman?" + +The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered his beard in his mouth, +chewing it confusedly. "You've a keen tongue for a question," was his +reply. "What for should anny man run from a woman?" + +"When the furniture flies, an' the woman knows more of the world in a day +than the man does in a year; and the man's a hulking bit of an Irishman-- +bien, then things are so and so!" + +Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trembling. "Come into the shade of +these maples," said Pierre, "for the sun has set you quaking a little," +and he put out his hand to take Macavoy's arm. + +The giant drew away from the hand, but walked on to the trees. His face +seemed to have grown older by years on the moment. "What's this y'are +sayin' to me?" he asked hoarsely. "What do you know av--av that woman?" + +"Malahide is a long way off," said Pierre, "but when one travels why +shouldn't the other?" + +Macavoy made a helpless motion with his lumbering hand. "Mother o' +saints," he said, "has it come to that, after all these years? Is she-- +tell me where she is, me frind, and you'll niver want an arm to fight for +ye, an' the half av a blanket, while I have wan!" + +"But you'll run as you did before, if I tell you, an' there'll be no +fighting to-night, accordin' to the word you've given." + +"No fightin', did ye say? an' run away, is it? Then this in your eye, +that if ye'll bring an army, I'll fight till the skin is in rags on me +bones, whin it's only men that's before me; but woman--and that wan! +Faith, I'd run, I'm thinkin', as I did, you know when--Don't tell me that +she's here, man; arrah, don't say that!" + +There was something pitiful and childlike in the big man's voice, so much +so that Pierre, calculating gamester as he was, and working upon him as +he had been for many weeks, felt a sudden pity, and dropping his fingers +on the other's arm, said: "No, Macavoy, my friend, she is not here; but +she is at Fort Ste. Anne--or was when I left there." + +Macavoy groaned. "Does she know that I'm here?" he asked. + +"I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away, and she may not hear." + +"What--what is she doing?" + +"Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan's green." Then Pierre told him +somewhat bluntly what he knew of Mrs. Macavoy. + +"I'd rather face Ballzeboob himself than her," said Macavoy. "An' she's +sure to find me." + +"Not if you do as I say." + +"An' what is it ye say, little man?" + +"Come away with me where she'll not find you." + +"An' where's that, Pierre darlin'?" + +"I'll tell you that when to-night's fighting's over. Have you a mind +for Wonta?" he continued. + +"I've a mind for Wonta an' many another as fine, but I'm a married man," +he said, "by priest an' by book; an' I can't forget that, though the +woman's to me as the pit below." + +Pierre looked curiously at him. "You're a wonderful fool," he said, "but +I'm not sure that I like you less for that. There was Shon M'Gann--but +it is no matter." He sighed and continued: "When to-night is over, you +shall have work and fun that you've been fattening for this many a year, +and the woman'll not find you, be sure of that. Besides--" he whispered +in Macavoy's ear. + +"Poor divil, poor divil, she'd always a throat for that; but it's a +horrible death to die, I'm thinkin'." Macavoy's chin dropped on his +breast. + +When the sun was falling below Little Red Hill, Macavoy came to Wonta's +tent. Pierre was not far away. What occurred in the tent Pierre never +quite knew, but presently he saw Wonta run out in a frightened way, +followed by the five half-breeds, who carried themselves awkwardly. +Behind them again, with head shaking from one side to the other, +travelled Macavoy; and they all marched away towards the Fort. "Well," +said Pierre to Wonta, "he is amusing, eh?--so big a coward, eh?" + +"No, no," she said, "you are wrong. He is no coward. He is a great +brave. He spoke like a little child, but he said he would fight them +all when--" + +"When their turn came," interposed Pierre, with a fine "bead" of humour +in his voice; "well, you see he has much to do." He pointed towards the +Fort, where people were gathering fast. The strange news had gone +abroad, and the settlement, laughing joyously, came to see Macavoy +swagger; they did not think there would be fighting. + +Those whom Macavoy had challenged were not so sure. When the giant +reached the open space in front of the Fort, he looked slowly round him. +A great change had come over him. His skin seemed drawn together more +firmly, and running himself up finely to his full height, he looked no +longer the lounging braggart. Pierre measured him with his eye, and +chuckled to himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his coat and waistcoat, +and rolled up his sleeves. His shirt was flying at the chest. + +He beckoned to Pierre. + +"Are you standin' me frind in this?" he said. "Now and after," said +Pierre. + +His voice was very simple. "I never felt as I do since the day the +coast-guardsmin dropped on me in Ireland far away, an' I drew blood an +every wan o' them--fine beautiful b'ys they looked--stretchen' out on the +ground wan by wan. D'ye know the double-an'-twist?" he suddenly added, +"for it's a honey trick whin they gather in an you, an' you can't be +layin' out wid yer fists. It plays the divil wid the spines av thim. +Will ye have a drop av drink--cold water, man--near, an' a sponge betune +whiles? For there's manny in the play--makin' up for lost time. Come +on," he added to the two settlers, who stood not far away, "for ye began +the trouble, an' we'll settle accordin' to a, b, c." + +Wiley and Hatchett were there. Responding to his call, they stepped +forward, though they had now little relish for the matter. They were +pale, but they stripped their coats and waistcoats, and Wiley stepped +bravely in front of Macavoy. The giant looked down on him, arms folded. +"I said two of you," he crooned, as if speaking to a woman. Hatchett +stepped forward also. An instant after the settlers were lying on the +ground at different angles, bruised and dismayed, and little likely to +carry on the war. Macavoy took a pail of water from the ground, drank +from it lightly, and waited. None other of his opponents stirred. +"There's three Injins," he said, "three rid divils, that wants showin' +the way to their happy huntin' grounds. . . . Sure, y'are comin', +ain't you, me darlins?" he added coaxingly, and he stretched himself, +as if to make ready. + +Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three Indians, and they stepped +forth warily. They had determined on strategic wrestling, and not on the +instant activity of fists. But their wiliness was useless, for Macavoy's +double-and-twist came near to lessening the Indian population of Fort +O'Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm, however. The Irishman came out +of the tangle of battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his beard +all torn, and face battered. A shout of laughter, admiration and wonder +went up from the crowd. There was a moment's pause, and then Macavoy, +whose blood ran high, stood forth again. The Trader came to him. + +"Must this go on?" he said; "haven't you had your fill of it?" + +Had he touched Macavoy with a word of humour the matter might have ended +there; but now the giant spoke loud, so all could hear. + +"Had me fill av it, Trader, me angel? I'm only gittin' the taste av it. +An' ye'll plaze bring on yer men--four it was--for the feed av Irish +pemmican." + +The Trader turned and swore at Pierre, who smiled enigmatically. +Soon after, two of the best fighters of the Company's men stood forth. +Macavoy shook his head. "Four, I said, an' four I'll have, or I'll ate +the heads aff these." + +Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All on an instant the four made +a rush on the giant; and there was a stiff minute after, in which it was +not clear that he was happy. Blows rattled on him, and one or two he got +on the head, just as he tossed a man spinning senseless across the grass, +which sent him staggering backwards for a moment, sick and stunned. + +Pierre called over to him swiftly: "Remember Malahide!" + +This acted on him like a charm. There never was seen such a shattered +bundle of men as came out from his hands a few minutes later. As for +himself, he had but a rag or two on him, but stood unmindful of his +state, and the fever of battle untameable on him. The women drew away. + +"Now, me babes o' the wood," he shouted, "that sit at the feet av the +finest Injin woman in the North,--though she's no frind o' mine--and +aren't fit to kiss her moccasin, come an wid you, till I have me fun wid +your spines." + +But a shout went up, and the crowd pointed. There were the five half- +breeds running away across the plains. + +The game was over. + +"Here's some clothes, man; for Heaven's sake put them on," said the +Trader. + +Then the giant became conscious of his condition, and like a timid girl +he hurried into the clothing. + +The crowd would have carried him on their shoulders, but he would have +none of it. + +"I've only wan frind here," he said, "an' it's Pierre, an' to his shanty +I go an' no other." + +"Come, mon ami," said Pierre, "for to-morrow we travel far." + +"And what for that?" said Macavoy. + +Pierre whispered in his ear: "To make you a king, my lovely bully." + + + + + + +THE FILIBUSTER + +Pierre had determined to establish a kingdom, not for gain, but for +conquest's sake. But because he knew that the thing would pall, he took +with him Macavoy the giant, to make him king instead. But first he made +Macavoy from a lovely bully, a bulk of good-natured brag, into a Hercules +of fight; for, having made him insult--and be insulted by--near a score +of men at Fort O'Angel, he also made him fight them by twos, threes, and +fours, all on a summer's evening, and send them away broken. Macavoy +would have hesitated to go with Pierre, were it not that he feared a +woman. Not that he had wronged her; she had wronged him: she had married +him. And the fear of one's own wife is the worst fear in the world. + +But though his heart went out to women, and his tongue was of the race +that beguiles, he stood to his "lines" like a man, and people wondered. +Even Wonta, the daughter of Foot-in-the-Sun, only bent him, she could not +break him to her will. Pierre turned her shy coaxing into irony--that +was on the day when all Fort O'Angel conspired to prove Macavoy a child +and not a warrior. But when she saw what she had done, and that the +giant was greater than his years of brag, she repented, and hung a dead +coyote at Pierre's door as a sign of her contempt. + +Pierre watched Macavoy, sitting with a sponge of vinegar to his head, +for he had had nasty joltings in his great fight. A little laugh came +crinkling up to the half-breed's lips, but dissolved into silence. + +"We'll start in the morning," he said. + +Macavoy looked up. "Whin you plaze; but a word in your ear; are you sure +she'll not follow us?" + +"She doesn't know. Fort Ste. Anne is in the south, and Fort Comfort, +where we go, is far north." + +"But if she kem!" the big man persisted. + +"You will be a king; you can do as other kings have done," Pierre +chuckled. + +The other shook his head. "Says Father Nolan to me, says he, "tis till +death us do part, an' no man put asunder'; an' I'll stand by that, though +I'd slice out the bist tin years av me life, if I niver saw her face +again." + +"But the girl, Wonta--what a queen she'd make!" + +"Marry her yourself, and be king yourself, and be damned to you! For +she, like the rest, laughed in me face, whin I told thim of the day whin +I--" + +"That's nothing. She hung a dead coyote at my door. You don't know +women. There'll be your breed and hers abroad in the land one day." + +Macavoy stretched to his feet--he was so tall that he could not stand +upright in the room. He towered over Pierre, who blandly eyed him. +"I've another word for your ear," he said darkly. "Keep clear av the +likes o' that wid me. For I've swallowed a tribe av divils. It's +fightin' you want. Well, I'll do it--I've an itch for the throats av +men, but a fool I'll be no more wid wimin, white or red--that hell-cat +that spoilt me life an' killed me child, or--" + +A sob clutched him in the throat. + +"You had a child, then?" asked Pierre gently. + +"An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an' 'd melt the heart av an +iron god: none like her above or below. But the mother, ah, the mother +of her! One day whin she'd said a sharp word, wid another from me, an' +the child clinging to her dress, she turned quick and struck it, meanin' +to anger me. Not so hard the blow was, but it sent the darlin's head +agin' the chimney-stone, and that was the end av it. For she took to her +bed, an' agin' the crowin' o' the cock wan midnight, she gives a little +cry an' snatched at me beard. 'Daddy,' says she, 'daddy, it hurts!' +An' thin she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her lips." + +Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling in his beard. Pierre was +uncomfortable. He could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death +unmoved--it seemed to him in the game; but the tragedy of a child, a mere +counter yet in the play of life--that was different. He slid a hand over +the table, and caught Macavoy's arm. "Poor little waif!" he said. + +Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned Pierre sick, and asked: "Had ye +iver a child av y'r own, Pierre-iver wan at all?" + +"Never," said Pierre dreamily, "and I've travelled far. A child--a child +--is a wonderful thing. . . . Poor little waif!" + +They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre was about to rise, but Macavoy +suddenly pinned him to his seat with this question: "Did y' iver have a +wife, thin, Pierre?" + +Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came through his teeth. He spoke +slowly: "Yes, once." + +"And she died?" asked the other, awed. + +"We all have our day," he replied enigmatically, "and there are worse +things than death. . . . Eh, well, mon ami, let us talk of other +things. To-morrow we go to conquer. I know where I can get five men I +want. I have ammunition and dogs." + +A few minutes afterwards Pierre was busy in the settlement. At the +Fort he heard strange news. A new batch of settlers was coming from the +south, and among them was an old Irishwoman who called herself now Mrs. +Whelan, now Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she was to find, +one Tim Macavoy, whose fame Gossip had brought to her at last. + +She had clung on to the settlers, and they could not shake her off. +"She was comin'," she said, "to her own darlin' b'y, from whom she'd been +parted manny a year, believin' him dead, or Tom Whelan had nivir touched +hand o' hers." + +The bearer of the news had but just arrived, and he told it only to the +Chief Trader and Pierre. At a word from Pierre the man promised to hold +his peace. Then Pierre went to Wonta's lodge. He found her with her +father alone, her head at her knees. When she heard his voice she looked +up sharply, and added a sharp word also. + +"Wait," he said; "women are such fools. You snapped your fingers in his +face, and laughed at him. Bien, that is nothing. He has proved himself +great. That is something. He will be greater still, if the other woman +does not find him. She should die, but then some women have no sense." + +"The other woman!" said Wonta, starting to her feet; "who is the other +woman?" + +Old Foot-in-the-Sun waked and sat up, but seeing that it was Pierre, +dropped again to sleep. Pierre, he knew, was no peril to any woman. +Besides, Wonta hated the half-breed, as he thought. + +Pierre told the girl the story of Macavoy's life; for he knew that she +loved the man after her heathen fashion, and that she could be trusted. + +"I do not care for that," she said, when he had finished; "it is +nothing. I would go with him. I should be his wife, the other should +die. I would kill her, if she would fight me. I know the way of knives, +or a rifle, or a pinch at the throat--she should die!" + +"Yes, but that will not do. Keep your hands free of her." + +Then he told her that they were going away. She said she would go also. +He said no to that, but told her to wait and he would come back for her. + +Though she tried hard to follow them, they slipped away from the Fort in +the moist gloom of the morning, the brown grass rustling, the prairie- +hens fluttering, the osiers soughing as they passed, the Spirit of the +North, ever hungry, drawing them on over the long Divides. They did not +see each other's faces till dawn. They were guided by Pierre's voice; +none knew his comrades. Besides Pierre and Macavoy, there were five +half-breeds--Noel, Little Babiche, Corvette, Josh, and Jacques Parfaite. +When they came to recognise each other, they shook hands, and marched on. +In good time they reached that wonderful and pleasant country between the +Barren Grounds and the Lake of Silver Shallows. To the north of it was +Fort Comfort, which they had come to take. Macavoy's rich voice roared +as of old, before his valour was questioned--and maintained--at Fort +O'Angel. Pierre had diverted his mind from the woman who, at Fort +O'Angel, was even now calling heaven and earth to witness that "Tim +Macavoy was her Macavoy and no other, an' she'd find him--the divil and +darlin', wid an arm like Broin Borhoime, an' a chest you could build a +house on--if she walked till Doomsday!" + +Macavoy stood out grandly, his fat all gone to muscle, blowing through +his beard, puffing his cheek, and ready with tale or song. But now that +they were facing the business of their journey, his voice got soft and +gentle, as it did before the Fort, when he grappled his foes two by two +and three by three, and wrung them out. In his eyes there was the thing +which counts as many men in any soldier's sight, when he leads in battle. +As he said himself, he was made for war, like Malachi o' the Golden +Collar. + +Pierre guessed that just now many of the Indians would be away for the +summer hunt, and that the Fort would perhaps be held by only a few score +of braves, who, however, would fight when they might easier play. He had +no useless compunctions about bloodshed. A human life he held to be a +trifle in the big sum of time, and that it was of little moment when a +man went, if it seemed his hour. He lived up to his creed, for he had +ever held his own life as a bird upon a housetop, which a chance stone +might drop. + +He was glad afterwards that he had decided to fight, for there was one +in Fort Comfort against whom he had an old grudge--the Indian, Young Eye, +who, many years before, had been one to help in killing the good Father +Halen, the priest who dropped the water on his forehead and set the cross +on top of that, when he was at his mother's breasts. One by one the +murderers had been killed, save this man. He had wandered north, lived +on the Coppermine River for a long time, and at length had come down +among the warring tribes at the Lake of Silver Shallows. + +Pierre was for direct attack. They crossed the lake in their canoes, at +a point about five miles from the Fort, and, so far as they could tell, +without being seen. Then ammunition went round, and they marched upon +the Fort. Pierre eyed Macavoy--measured him, as it were, for what he was +worth. The giant seemed happy. He was humming a tune softly through his +beard. Suddenly Jose paused, dropped to the foot of a pine, and put his +ear to it. Pierre understood. He had caught at the same thing. "There +is a dance on," said Jose, "I can hear the drum." + +Pierre thought a minute. "We will reconnoitre," he said presently. + +"It is near night now," remarked Little Babiche. "I know something of +these. When they have a great snake dance at night, strange things +happen." Then he spoke in a low tone to Pierre. + +They halted in the bush, and Little Babiche went forward to spy upon the +Fort. He came back just after sunset, reporting that the Indians were +feasting. He had crept near, and had learned that the braves were +expected back from the hunt that night, and that the feast was for +their welcome. + +The Fort stood in an open space, with tall trees for a background. In +front, here and there, were juniper and tamarac bushes. Pierre laid his +plans immediately, and gave the word to move on. Their presence had not +been discovered, and if they could but surprise the Indians the Fort +might easily be theirs. They made a detour, and after an hour came upon +the Fort from behind. Pierre himself went forward cautiously, leaving +Macavoy in command. When he came again he said: + +"It's a fine sight, and the way is open. They are feasting and dancing. +If we can enter without being seen, we are safe, except for food; we must +trust for that. Come on." + +When they arrived at the margin of the woods a wonderful scene was before +them. A volcanic hill rose up on one side, gloomy and stern, but the +reflection of the fires reached it, and made its sides quiver--the rock +itself seemed trembling. The sombre pines showed up, a wall all round, +and in the open space, turreted with fantastic fires, the Indians swayed +in and out with weird chanting, their bodies mostly naked, and painted in +strange colours. The earth itself was still and sober. Scarce a star +peeped forth. A purple velvet curtain seemed to hang all down the sky, +though here and there the flame bronzed it. The Indian lodges were +empty, save where a few children squatted at the openings. The seven +stood still with wonder, till Pierre whispered to them to get to the +ground and crawl close in by the walls of the Fort, following him. They +did so, Macavoy breathing hard--too hard; for suddenly Pierre clapped a +hand on his mouth. + +They were now near the Fort, and Pierre had seen an Indian come from the +gate. The brave was within a few feet of them. He had almost passed +them, for they were in the shadow, but Jose had burst a puffball with his +hand, and the dust, flying up, made him sneeze. The Indian turned and +saw them. With a low cry and the spring of a tiger Pierre was at his +throat; and in another minute they were struggling on the ground. +Pierre's hand never let go. His comrades did not stir; he had warned +them to lie still. They saw the terrible game played out within arm's +length of them. They heard Pierre say at last, as the struggles of the +Indian ceased: "Beast! You had Father Halen's life. I have yours." + +There was one more wrench of the Indian's limbs, and then he lay still. + +They crawled nearer the gate, still hidden in the shadows and the grass. +Presently they came to a clear space. Across this they must go, and +enter the Fort before they were discovered. They got to their feet, and +ran with wonderful swiftness, Pierre leading, to the gate. They had just +reached it when there was a cry from the walls, on which two Indians were +sitting. The Indians sprang down, seized their spears, and lunged at the +seven as they entered. One spear caught Little Babiche in the arm as he +swung aside, but with the butt of his musket Noel dropped him. The other +Indian was promptly handled by Pierre himself. By this time Corvette and +Jose had shut the gates, and the Fort was theirs--an easy conquest. The +Indians were bound and gagged. + +The adventurers had done it all without drawing the attention of the +howling crowd without. The matter was in its infancy, however. They +had the place, but could they hold it? What food and water were there +within? Perhaps they were hardly so safe besieged as besiegers. Yet +there was no doubt on Pierre's part. He had enjoyed the adventure so far +up to the hilt. An old promise had been kept, and an old wrong avenged. + +"What's to be done now?" said Macavoy. "There'll be hell's own racket; +and they'll come on like a flood." + +"To wait," said Pierre, "and dam the flood as it comes. But not a bullet +till I give the word. Take to the chinks. We'll have them soon." + +He was right: they came soon. Someone had found the dead body of Young +Eye; then it was discovered that the gate was shut. A great shout went +up. The Indians ran to their lodges for spears and hatchets, though the +weapons of many were within the Fort, and soon they were about the place, +shouting in impotent rage. They could not tell how many invaders were in +the Fort; they suspected it was the Little Skins, their ancient enemies. +But Young Eye, they saw, had not been scalped. This was brought to the +old chief, and he called to his men to fall back. They had not seen one +man of the invaders; all was silent and dark within the Fort; even the +two torches which had been burning above the gate were down. At that +moment, as if to add to the strangeness, a caribou came suddenly through +the fires, and, passing not far from the bewildered Indians, plunged into +the trees behind the Fort. + +The caribou is credited with great powers. It is thought to understand +all that is said to it, and to be able to take the form of a spirit. No +Indian will come near it till it is dead, and he that kills it out of +season is supposed to bring down all manner of evil. + +So at this sight they cried out--the women falling to the ground with +their faces in their arms--that the caribou had done this thing. For a +moment they were all afraid. Besides, as a brave showed, there was no +mark on the body of Young Eye. + +Pierre knew quite well that this was a bull caribou, travelling wildly +till he found another herd. He would carry on the deception. "Wail for +the dead, as your women do in Ireland. That will finish them," he said +to Macavoy. + +The giant threw his voice up and out, so that it seemed to come from over +the Fort to the Indians, weird and crying. Even the half-breeds standing +by felt a light shock of unnatural excitement. The Indians without drew +back slowly from the Fort, leaving a clear space between. Macavoy had +uncanny tricks with his voice, and presently he changed the song into a +shrill, wailing whistle, which went trembling about the place and then +stopped suddenly. + +"Sure, that's a poor game, Pierre," he whispered; "an' I'd rather be +pluggin' their hides wid bullets, or givin' the double-an'-twist. It's +fightin' I come for, and not the trick av Mother Kilkevin." + +Pierre arranged a plan of campaign at once. Every man looked to his gun, +the gates were slowly opened, and Macavoy stepped out. Pierre had thrown +over the Irishman's shoulders the great skin of a musk-ox which he had +found inside the stockade. He was a strange, immense figure, as he +walked into the open space, and, folding his arms, looked round. In the +shadow of the gate behind were Pierre and the halfbreeds, with guns +cocked. + +Macavoy had lived so long in the north that he knew enough of all the +languages to speak to this tribe. When he came out a murmur of wonder +ran among the Indians. They had never seen anyone so tall, for they were +not great of stature, and his huge beard and wild shock of hair were a +wonderful sight. He remained silent, looking on them. At last the old +chief spoke. "Who are you?" + +"I am a great chief from the Hills of the Mighty Men, come to be your +king," was his reply. + +"He is your king," cried Pierre in a strange voice from the shadow of the +gate, and he thrust out his gun-barrel, so that they could see it. + +The Indians now saw Pierre and the half-breeds in the gateway, and they +had not so much awe. They came a little nearer, and the women stopped +crying. A few of the braves half-raised their spears. Seeing this, +Pierre instantly stepped forward to the giant. He looked a child in +stature thereby. He spoke quickly and well in the Chinook language. + +"This is a mighty man from the Hills of the Mighty Men. He has come to +rule over you, to give all other tribes into your hands; for he has +strength like a thousand, and fears nothing of gods nor men. I have the +blood of red men in me. It is I who have called this man from his +distant home. I heard of your fighting and foolishness: also that +warriors were to come from the south country to scatter your wives and +children, and to make you slaves. I pitied you, and I have brought you a +chief greater than any other. Throw your spears upon the ground, and all +will be well; but raise one to throw, or one arrow, or axe, and there +shall be death among you, so that as a people you shall die. The spirits +are with us. . . . Well?" + +The Indians drew a little nearer, but they did not drop their spears, for +the old chief forbade them. + +"We are no dogs nor cowards," he said, "though the spirits be with you, +as we believe. We have seen strange things"--he pointed to Young Eye-- +"and heard voices not of men; but we would see great things as well as +strange. There are seven men of the Little Skins tribe within a lodge +yonder. They were to die when our braves returned from the hunt, and for +that we prepared the feast. But this mighty man, he shall fight them all +at once, and if he kills them he shall be our king. In the name of my +tribe I speak. And this other," pointing to Pierre, "he shall also fight +with a strong man of our tribe, so that we shall know if you are all +brave, and not as those who crawl at the knees of the mighty." + +This was more than Pierre had bargained for. Seven men at Macavoy, and +Indians too, fighting for their lives, was a contract of weight. But +Macavoy was blowing in his beard cheerfully enough. + +"Let me choose me ground," he said, "wid me back to the wall, an' I'll +take thim as they come." + +Pierre instantly interpreted this to the Indians, and said for himself +that he would welcome their strongest man at the point of a knife when he +chose. + +The chief gave an order, and the Little Skins were brought. The fires +still burned brightly, and the breathing of the pines, as a slight wind +rose and stirred them, came softly over. The Indians stood off at the +command of the chief. Macavoy drew back to the wall, dropped the musk-ox +skin to the ground, and stripped himself to the waist. But in his +waistband there was what none of these Indians had ever seen--a small +revolver that barked ever so softly. In the hands of each Little Skin +there was put a knife, and they were told their cheerful exercise. They +came on cautiously, and then suddenly closed in, knives flashing. But +Macavoy's little bulldog barked, and one dropped to the ground. The +others fell back. The wounded man drew up, made a lunge at Macavoy, but +missed him. As if ashamed, the other six came on again at a spring. But +again the weapon did its work smartly, and one more came down. Now the +giant put it away, ran in upon the five, and cut right and left. So +sudden and massive was his rush that they had no chance. Three fell at +his blows, and then he drew back swiftly to the wall. "Drop your +knives," he said, as they cowered, "or I'll kill you all." They did so. +He dropped his own. + +"Now come on, ye scuts!" he cried, and suddenly he reached and caught +them, one with each arm, and wrestled with them, till he bent the one +like a willow-rod, and dropped him with a broken back, while the other +was at his mercy. Suddenly loosing him, he turned him towards the woods, +and said: "Run, ye rid divil, run for y'r life!" + +A dozen spears were raised, but the rifles of Pierre's men came in +between: the Indian reached cover and was gone. Of the six others, two +had been killed, the rest were severely wounded, and Macavoy had not a +scratch. + +Pierre smiled grimly. "You've been doing all the fighting, Macavoy," he +said. + +"There's no bein' a king for nothin'," he replied, wiping blood from his +beard. + +"It's my turn now, but keep your rifles ready, though I think there's no +need." + +Pierre had but a short minute with the champion, for he was an expert +with the knife. He carried away four fingers of the Indian's fighting +hand, and that ended it; for the next instant the point was at the red +man's throat. The Indian stood to take it like a man; but Pierre loved +that kind of courage, and shot the knife into its sheath instead. + +The old chief kept his word, and after the spears were piled, he shook +hands with Macavoy, as did his braves one by one, and they were all moved +by the sincerity of his grasp: their arms were useless for some time +after. They hailed as their ruler, King Macavoy I.; for men are like +dogs--they worship him who beats them. The feasting and dancing went on +till the hunters came back. Then there was a wild scene, but in the end +all the hunters, satisfied, came to greet their new king. + +The king himself went to bed in the Fort that night, Pierre and his +bodyguard--by name Noel, Little Babiche, Corvette, Jose, and Parfaite +--its only occupants, singing joyfully: + + "Did yees iver hear tell o' Long Barney, + That come from the groves o' Killarney? + He wint for a king, oh, he wint for a king, + But he niver keen back to Killarney + Wid his crown, an' his soord, an' his army!" + +As a king Macavoy was a success, for the brag had gone from him. Like +all his race he had faults as a subject, but the responsibility of ruling +set him right. He found in the Fort an old sword and belt, left by some +Hudson's Bay Company's man, and these he furbished up and wore. + +With Pierre's aid he drew up a simple constitution, which he carried in +the crown of his cap, and he distributed beads and gaudy trappings as +marks of honour. Nor did he forget the frequent pipe of peace, made +possible to all by generous gifts of tobacco. Anyone can found a kingdom +abaft the Barren Grounds with tobacco, beads, and red flannel. + +For very many weeks it was a happy kingdom. But presently Pierre yawned, +and was ready to return. Three of the half-breeds were inclined to go +with him. Jose and Little Babiche had formed alliances which held them +there--besides, King Macavoy needed them. + +On the eve of Pierre's departure a notable thing occurred. + +A young brave had broken his leg in hunting, had been picked up by a band +of another tribe, and carried south. He found himself at last at Fort +O'Angel. There he had met Mrs. Whelan, and for presents of tobacco, and +purple and fine linen, he had led her to her consort. That was how the +king and Pierre met her in the yard of Fort Comfort one evening of early +autumn. Pierre saw her first, and was for turning the King about and +getting him away; but it was too late. Mrs. Whelan had seen him, and she +called out at him: + +"Oh, Tim! me jool, me king, have I found ye, me imp'ror!" + +She ran at him, to throw her arms round him. He stepped back, the red of +his face going white, and said, stretching out his hand, "Woman, y'are me +wife, I know, whativer y' be; an' y've right to have shelter and bread av +me; but me arms, an' me bed, are me own to kape or to give; and, by God, +ye shall have nayther one nor the other! There's a ditch as wide as hell +betune us." + +The Indians had gathered quickly; they filled the yard, and crowded the +gate. The woman went wild, for she had been drinking. She ran at +Macavoy and spat in his face, and called down such a curse on him as, +whoever hears, be he one that's cursed or any other, shudders at till he +dies. Then she fell in a fit at his feet. Macavoy turned to the +Indians, stretched out his hands and tried to speak, but could not. He +stooped down, picked up the woman, carried her into the Fort, and laid +her on a bed of skins. + +"What will you do?" asked Pierre. + +"She is my wife," he answered firmly. + +"She lived with Whelan." + +"She must be cared for," was the reply. Pierre looked at him with a +curious quietness. "I'll get liquor for her," he said presently. He +started to go, but turned and felt the woman's pulse. "You would keep +her?" he asked. + +"Bring the liquor." Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the sleeve +of his shirt in it, wetted her face gently. + +Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that the woman would die. He +stayed with Macavoy beside her all the night. Towards morning her eyes +opened, and she shivered greatly. + +"It's bither cold," she said. "You'll put more wood on the fire, Tim, +for the babe must be kept warrum." + +She thought she was at Malahide. + +"Oh, wurra, wurra, but 'tis freezin'!" she said again. "Why d'ye kape +the door opin whin the child's perishin'?" + +Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shaking him. + +"I'll shut the door meself, thin," she added; "for 'twas I that lift it +opin, Tim." She started up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell +back. + +"The door is shut," said Pierre. + +"But the child--the child!" said Macavoy, tears running down his face +and beard. + + + + + + +THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING + +Once Macavoy the giant ruled a tribe of Northern people, achieving the +dignity by the hands of Pierre, who called him King Macavoy. Then came +a time when, tiring of his kingship, he journeyed south, leaving all +behind, even his queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and yarrow, +came forth no more into the morning. About Fort Guidon they still +gave him his title, and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and +generosity, Pierre called him "The Simple King." His seven feet and +over shambled about, suggesting unjointed power, unshackled force. +No one hated Macavoy, many loved him, he was welcome at the fire and +the cooking-pot; yet it seemed shameful to have so much man useless-- +such an engine of life, which might do great things, wasting fuel. +Nobody thought much of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps, Pierre, +who sometimes said, "My simple king, some day you shall have your great +chance again; but not as a king--as a giant, a man--voila!" + +The day did not come immediately, but it came. When Ida, the deaf and +dumb girl, married Hilton, of the H.B.C., every man at Fort Guidon, and +some from posts beyond, sent her or brought her presents of one kind or +another. Pierre's gift was a Mexican saddle. He was branding Ida's name +on it with the broken blade of a case-knife when Macavoy entered on him, +having just returned from a vagabond visit to Fort Ste. Anne. + +"Is it digging out or carvin' in y'are?" he asked, puffing into his +beard. + +Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not reply to the insinuation, +for he never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it; and he would +not quarrel with Macavoy. + +"What are you going to give?" he asked. + +"Aw, give what to who, hop-o'-me-thumb?" Macavoy said, stretching +himself out in the doorway, his legs in the sun, head in the shade. + +"You've been taking a walk in the country, then?" Pierre asked, though +he knew. + +"To Fort Ste. Anne: a buryin', two christ'nin's, an' a weddin'; an' +lashin's av grog an' swill-aw that, me button o' the North!" + +"La la! What a fool you are, my simple king! You've got the things end +foremost. Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light a cigarette, +and if you breathe this way, there will be a grand explode." + +"Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre! It's like a baby's, me breath is, +milk and honey it is--aw yis; an' Father Corraine, that was doin' the +trick for the love o' God, says he to me, 'Little Tim Macavoy,'--aw yis, +little Tim Macavoy,--says he, 'when are you goin' to buckle to, for the +love o' God?' says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that Father Corraine +should spake to me like that, for I'd only a twig twisted at me hips to +kape me trousies up, an' I thought 'twas that he had in his eye! 'Buckle +to,' says I, 'Father Corraine? Buckle to, yer riv'rince?'--feelin' I was +at the twigs the while. 'Ay, little Tim Macavoy,' he says, says he, +'you've bin 'atin' the husks av idleness long enough; when are you goin' +to buckle to? You had a kingdom and ye guv it up,' says he; 'take a +field, get a plough, and buckle to,' says he, 'an' turn back no more'-- +like that, says Father Corraine; and I thinkin' all the time 'twas the +want o' me belt he was drivin' at." + +Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then said: "Such a tom-fool! And +where's that grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch?" + +A laugh shook through Macavoy's beard. "For the weddin' it wint: buckled +the two up wid it for better or worse--an' purty they looked, they did, +standin' there in me cinch, an' one hole left--aw yis, Pierre." + +"And what do you give to Ida?" Pierre asked, with a little emphasis of +the branding-iron. + +Macavoy got to his feet. "Ida! Ida!" said he. "Is that saddle for +Ida? Is it her and Hilton that's to ate aff one dish togither? That +rose o' the valley, that bird wid a song in her face and none an her +tongue. That daisy dot av a thing, steppin' through the world like a +sprig o' glory. Aw, Pierre, thim two!--an' I've divil a scrap to give, +good or bad. I've nothin' at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes an +me back, an' thim hangin' on the underbrush!"--giving a little twist to +the twigs. "An' many a meal an' many a dipper o' drink she's guv me, +little smiles dancin' at her lips." + +He sat down in the doorway again, with his face turned towards Pierre, +and the back of his head in the sun. He was a picture of perfect health, +sumptuous, huge, a bull in beauty, the heart of a child looking out of +his eyes, but a sort of despair, too, in his bearing. + +Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for a time, then he said +languidly: "Never mind your clothes, give yourself." + +"Yer tongue in yer cheek, me spot o' vinegar. Give meself! What's that +for? A purty weddin' gift, says I? Handy thing to have in the house! +Use me for a clothes-horse, or shtand me in the garden for a fairy bower- +aw yis, wid a hole in me face that'd ate thim out o' house and home!" + +Pierre drew a piece of brown paper towards him, and wrote on it with a +burnt match. Presently he held it up. "Voila, my simple king, the thing +for you to do: a grand gift, and to cost you nothing now. Come, read it +out, and tell me what you think." + +Macavoy took the paper, and in a large, judicial way, read slowly: + +"On demand, for value received, I promise to pay to . . . IDA HILTON . +. . or order, meself, Tim Macavoy, standin' seven foot three on me bare +fut, wid interest at nothin' at all." + +Macavoy ended with a loud smack of the lips. "McGuire!" he said, and +nothing more. + +McGuire was his strongest expression. In the most important moments of +his career he had said it, and it sounded deep, strange, and more +powerful than many usual oaths. A moment later he said again "McGuire!" +Then he read the paper once more out loud. "What's that, me Frinchman?" +he asked. "What Ballzeboob's tricks are y'at now?" + +Pierre was complacently eyeing his handiwork on the saddle. He now +settled back with his shoulders to the wall, and said: "See, then, it's +a little promissory note for a wedding-gift to Ida. When she says some +day, 'Tim Macavoy, I want you to do this or that, or to go here or there, +or to sell you or trade you, or use you for a clothes-horse, or a bridge +over a canyon, or to hold up a house, or blow out a prairie-fire, or be +my second husband,' you shall say, 'Here I am'; and you shall travel from +Heaven to Halifax, but you shall come at the call of this promissory." + +Pierre's teeth glistened behind a smile as he spoke, and Macavoy broke +into a roar of laughter. "Black's the white o' yer eye," he said at +last, "an' a joke's a joke. Seven fut three I am, an' sound av wind an' +limb--an' a weddin'-gift to that swate rose o' the valley! Aisy, aisy, +Pierre. A bit o' foolin' 'twas ye put on the paper, but truth I'll make +it, me cock o' the walk. That's me gift to her an' Hilton, an' no other. +An' a dab wid red wax it shall have, an' what more be the word o' Freddy +Tarlton the lawyer?" + +"You're a great man," said Pierre with a touch of gentle irony, for his +natural malice had no play against the huge ex-king of his own making. +With these big creatures--he had connived with several in his time--he +had ever been superior, protective, making them to feel that they were as +children beside him. He looked at Macavoy musingly, and said to himself: +"Well, why not? If it is a joke, then it is a joke; if it is a thing to +make the world stand still for a minute sometime, so much the better. He +is all waste now. By the holy, he shall do it. It is amusing, and it +may be great by and by." + +Presently Pierre said aloud: "Well, my Macavoy, what will you do? Send +this good gift?" + +"Aw yis, Pierre; I shtand by that from the crown av me head to the sole +av me fut sure. Face like a mornin' in May, and hands like the tunes of +an organ, she has. Spakes wid a look av her eye and a twist av her purty +lips an' swaying body, an' talkin' to you widout a word. Aw motion-- +motion--motion; yis, that's it. An' I've seen her an tap av a hill wid +the wind blowin' her hair free, and the yellow buds on the tree, and the +grass green beneath her feet, the world smilin' betune her and the sun: +pictures--pictures, aw yis! Promissory notice on demand is it anny +toime? Seven fut three on me bare toes--but Father o' Sin! when she +calls I come, yis." + +"On your oath, Macavoy?" asked Pierre; "by the book av the Mass?" + +Macavoy stood up straight till his head scraped the cobwebs between the +rafters, the wild indignation of a child in his eye. "D'ye think I'm a +thafe to stale me own word? Hut! I'll break ye in two, ye wisp o' +straw, if ye doubt me word to a lady. There's me note av hand, and ye +shall have me fist on it, in writin', at Freddy Tarlton's office, wid a +blotch av red an' the Queen's head at the bottom. McGuire!" he said +again, and paused, puffing his lips through his beard. + +Pierre looked at him a moment, then waving his fingers idly, said, "So, +my straw-breaker! Then tomorrow morning at ten you will fetch your +wedding-gift. But come so soon now to M'sieu' Tarlton's office, and we +will have it all as you say, with the red seal and the turn of your fist +--yes. Well, well, we travel far in the world, and sometimes we see +strange things, and no two strange things are alike--no; there is only +one Macavoy in the world, there was only one Shon McGann. Shon McGann +was a fine fool, but he did something at last, truly yes: Tim Macavoy, +perhaps, will do something at last on his own hook. Hey, I wonder!" +He felt the muscles of Macavoy's arm musingly, and then laughed up in +the giant's face. "Once I made you a king, my own, and you threw it all +away; now I make you a slave, and we shall see what you will do. Come +along, for M'sieu' Tarlton." + +Macavoy dropped a heavy hand on Pierre's shoulder. "'Tis hard to be a +king, Pierre, but 'tis aisy to be a slave for the likes o' her. I'd kiss +her dirty shoe sure!" + +As they passed through the door, Pierre said, "Dis done, perhaps, when +all is done, she will sell you for old bones and rags. Then I will buy +you, and I will burn your bones and the rags, and I will scatter to the +four winds of the earth the ashes of a king, a slave, a fool, and an +Irishman--truly!" + +"Bedad, ye'll have more earth in yer hands then, Pierre, than ye'll ever +earn, and more heaven than ye'll ever shtand in." + +Half an hour later they were in Freddy Tarlton's office on the banks of +the Little Big Swan, which tumbled past, swelled by the first rain of the +early autumn. Freddy Tarlton, who had a gift of humour, entered into the +spirit of the thing, and treated it seriously; but in vain did he protest +that the large red seal with Her Majesty's head on it was unnecessary; +Macavoy insisted, and wrote his name across it with a large +indistinctness worthy of a king. Before the night was over everybody at +Guidon Hill, save Hilton and Ida, knew what gift would come from Macavoy +to the wedded pair. + + + +II + +The next morning was almost painfully beautiful, so delicate in its +clearness, so exalted by the glory of the hills, so grand in the +limitless stretch of the green-brown prairie north and south. It was a +day for God's creatures to meet in, and speed away, and having flown +round the boundaries of that spacious domain, to return again to the nest +of home on the large plateau between the sea and the stars. Gathered +about Ida's home was everybody who lived within a radius of a hundred +miles. In the large front room all the presents were set: rich furs from +the far north, cunningly carved bowls, rocking-chairs made by hand, +knives, cooking utensils, a copy of Shakespeare in six volumes from the +Protestant missionary who performed the ceremony, a nugget of gold from +the Long Light River; and outside the door, a horse, Hilton's own present +to his wife, on which was put Pierre's saddle, with its silver mounting +and Ida's name branded deep on pommel and flap. When Macavoy arrived, +a cheer went up, which was carried on waves of laughter into the house +to Hilton and Ida, who even then were listening to the first words of the +brief service which begins, "I charge you both if you do know any just +cause or impediment--" and so on. + +They did not turn to see what it was, for just at that moment they +themselves were the very centre of the universe. Ida being deaf and +dumb, it was necessary to interpret to her the words of the service by +signs, as the missionary read it, and this was done by Pierre himself, +the half-breed Catholic, the man who had brought Hilton and Ida together, +for he and Ida had been old friends. After Father Corraine had taught +her the language of signs, Pierre had learned them from her, until at +last his gestures had become as vital as her own. The delicate precision +of his every movement, the suggestiveness of look and motion, were suited +to a language which was nearer to the instincts of his own nature than +word of mouth. All men did not trust Pierre, but all women did; with +those he had a touch of Machiavelli, with these he had no sign of +Mephistopheles, and few were the occasions in his life when he showed +outward tenderness to either: which was equally effective. He had +learnt, or knew by instinct, that exclusiveness as to men and +indifference as to women are the greatest influences on both. As he +stood there, slowly interpreting to Ida, by graceful allusive signs, the +words of the service, one could not think that behind his impassive face +there was any feeling for the man or for the woman. He had that +disdainful smile which men acquire who are all their lives aloof from the +hopes of the hearthstone and acknowledge no laws but their own. + +More than once the eyes of the girl filled with tears, as the pregnancy +of some phrase in the service came home to her. Her face responded to +Pierre's gestures, as do one's nerves to the delights of good music, and +there was something so unique, so impressive in the ceremony, that the +laughter which had greeted Macavoy passed away, and a dead silence; +beginning from where the two stood, crept out until it covered all the +prairie. Nothing was heard except Hilton's voice in strong tones saying, +"I take thee to be my wedded wife," etc.; but when the last words of the +service were said, and the newmade bride turned to her husband's embrace, +and a little sound of joy broke from her lips, there was plenty of noise +and laughter again, for Macavoy stood in the doorway, or rather outside +it, stooping to look in upon the scene. Someone had lent him the cinch +of a broncho and he had belted himself with it, no longer carrying his +clothes about "on the underbrush." Hilton laughed and stretched out his +hand. "Come in, King," he said, "come and wish us joy." + +Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his way, and instantly was +stooping before the pair--for he could not stand upright in the room. + +"Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that's pluckin' the rose av the +valley, snatchin' the stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o' +that! Travel down I did yesterday from Fort Ste. Anne, and divil a word +I knew till Pierre hit me in the eye wid it last night--and no time for a +present, for a wedding-gift--no, aw no!" + +Just here Ida reached up and touched him on the shoulder. He smiled down +on her, puffing and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to her, yet +knowing no word by signs to say; but he nodded his head at her, and he +patted Hilton's shoulder, and he took their hands and joined them +together, hers on top of Hilton's, and shook them in one of his own till +she almost winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who nodded in +reply, Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy to kiss--Macavoy, the idle, ill- +cared-for, boisterous giant. His face became red like that of a child +caught in an awkward act, and with an absurd shyness he stooped and +touched her cheek. Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out, "Aw, the +rose o' the valley, the pride o' the wide wurruld! aw, the bloom o' the +hills! I'd have kissed her dirty shoe. McQuire!" + +A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear air of the prairie, and the +hills seemed to stir with the pleasure of life. Then it was that +Macavoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly stopped beside the +horse, drew from his pocket the promissory note that Pierre had written, +and said, "Yis, but all the weddin'-gifts aren't in. 'Tis nothin' I had +to give-divil a cent in the wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot for +the fire, or a bit av linin for the table; nothin' but meself and me +dirty clothes, standin' seven fut three an me bare toes. What was I to +do? There was only meself to give, so I give it free and hearty, and +here it is wid the Queen's head an it, done in Mr. Tarlton's office. +Ye'd better had had a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse, or a +saddle, or a quart o' brown brandy; but such as it is I give it ye-- +I give it to the rose o' the valley and the star o' the wide wurruld." + +In a loud voice he read the promissory note, and handed it to Ida. Men +laughed till there were tears in their eyes, and a keg of whisky was +opened; but somehow Ida did not laugh. She and Pierre had seen a serious +side to Macavoy's gift: the childlike manliness in it. It went home to +her woman's heart without a touch of ludicrousness, without a sound of +laughter. + + + +III + +After a time the interest in this wedding-gift declined at Fort Guidon, +and but three people remembered it with any singular distinctness--Ida, +Pierre, and Macavoy. Pierre was interested, for in his primitive mind he +knew that, however wild a promise, life is so wild in its events, there +comes the hour for redemption of all I O U's. + +Meanwhile, weeks, months, and even a couple of years passed, Macavoy and +Pierre coming and going, sometimes together, sometimes not, in all manner +of words at war, in all manner of fact at peace. And Ida, out of the +bounty of her nature, gave the two vagabonds a place at her fireside +whenever they chose to come. Perhaps, where speech was not given, a gift +of divination entered into her instead, and she valued what others found +useless, and held aloof from what others found good. She had powers +which had ever been the admiration of Guidon Hill. Birds and animals +were her friends--she called them her kinsmen. A peculiar sympathy +joined them; so that when, at last, she tamed a white wild duck, and made +it do the duties of a carrier-pigeon, no one thought it strange. + +Up in the hills, beside the White Sun River, lived her sister and her +sister's children; and, by and by, the duck carried messages back and +forth, so that when, in the winter, Ida's health became delicate, she had +comfort in the solicitude and cheerfulness of her sister, and the gaiety +of the young birds of her nest, who sent Ida many a sprightly message and +tales of their good vagrancy in the hills. In these days Pierre and +Macavoy were little at the Post, save now and then to sit with Hilton +beside the fire, waiting for spring and telling tales. Upon Hilton had +settled that peaceful, abstracted expectancy which shows man at his best, +as he waits for the time when, through the half-lights of his fatherhood, +he shall see the broad fine dawn of motherhood spreading up the world-- +which, all being said and done, is that place called Home. Something +gentle came over him while he grew stouter in body and in all other ways +made a larger figure among the people of the West. + +As Pierre said, whose wisdom was more to be trusted than his general +morality, "It is strange that most men think not enough of themselves +till a woman shows them how. But it is the great wonder that the woman +does not despise him for it. Quel caractere! She has so often to show +him his way like a babe, and yet she says to him, Mon grand homme! my +master! my lord! Pshaw! I have often thought that women are half +saints, half fools, and men half fools, half rogues. But Quelle vie!-- +what life! without a woman you are half a man; with one you are bound to +a single spot in the world, you are tied by the leg, your wing is +clipped--you cannot have all. Quelle vie--what life!" + +To this Macavoy said: "Spit-spat! But what the devil good does all yer +thinkin' do ye, Pierre? It's argufy here and argufy there, an' while yer +at that, me an' the rest av us is squeezin' the fun out o' life. Aw, go +'long wid ye. Y'are only a bit o' hell and grammar, annyway. Wid all +yer cuttin' and carvin' things to see the internals av thim, I'd do more +to the call av a woman's finger than for all the logic and knowalogy y' +ever chewed--an' there y'are, me little tailor o' jur'sprudince!" + +"To the finger call of Hilton's wife, eh?" + +Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre's enigmatical tone meant. A wild +light showed in his eyes, and his tongue blundered out: "Yis, Hilton's +wife's finger, or a look av her eye, or nothin' at all. Aisy, aisy, ye +wasp! Ye'd go stalkin' divils in hell for her yerself, so ye would. But +the tongue av ye--but, it's gall to the tip." + +"Maybe, my king. But I'd go hunting because I wanted; you because you +must. You're a slave to come and to go, with a Queen's seal on the +promissory." + +Macavoy leaned back and roared. "Aw, that! The rose o' the valley--the +joy o' the wurruld! S't, Pierre--" his voice grew softer on a sudden, as +a fresh thought came to him--"did y' ever think that the child might be +dumb like the mother?" + +This was a day in the early spring, when the snows were melting in the +hills, and freshets were sweeping down the valleys far and near. That +night a warm heavy rain came on, and in the morning every stream and +river was swollen to twice its size. The mountains seemed to have +stripped themselves of snow, and the vivid sun began at once to colour +the foothills with green. As Pierre and Macavoy stood at their door, +looking out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy suddenly said: "Aw, +look, look, Pierre--her white duck off to the nest on Champak Hill!" + +They both shaded their eyes with their hands. Circling round two or +three times above the Post, the duck then stretched out its neck to the +west, and floated away beyond Guidon Hill, and was hid from view. + +Pierre, without a word, began cleaning his rifle, while Macavoy smoked, +and sat looking into the distance, surveying the sweet warmth and light. +His face blossomed with colour, and the look of his eyes was that of an +irresponsible child. Once or twice he smiled and puffed in his beard, +but perhaps that was involuntary, or was, maybe, a vague reflection of +his dreams, themselves most vague, for he was only soaking in sun and air +and life. + +Within an hour they saw the wild duck-again passing the crest of Guidon, +and they watched it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling the +gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams. But presently they were +altogether roused, the gun was put away, and both were on their feet; +for after the pigeon arrived there was a stir at the Post, and Hilton +could be seen running from the store to his house, not far away. + +"Something's wrong there," said Pierre. + +"D'ye think 'twas the duck brought it?" asked Macavoy. + +Without a word Pierre started away towards the Post, Macavoy following. +As they did so, a half-breed boy came from the house, hurrying towards +them. + +Inside the house Hilton's wife lay in her bed, her great hour coming on +before the time, because of ill news from beyond the Guidon. There was +with her an old Frenchwoman, who herself, in her time, had brought many +children into the world, whose heart brooded tenderly, if uncouthly, over +the dumb girl. She it was who had handed to Hilton the paper the wild +duck had brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in a faint on the +floor. + +The message that had felled the young wife was brief and awful. A cloud- +burst had fallen on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and a part of +this part had swept down into the path that led to the little house, +having been stopped by some falling trees and a great boulder. It +blocked the only way to escape above, and beneath, the river was creeping +up to sweep away the little house. So, there the mother and her children +waited (the father was in the farthest north), facing death below and +above. The wild duck had carried the tale in its terrible simplicity. +The last words were, "There mayn't be any help for me and my sweet +chicks, but I am still hoping, and you must send a man or many. But send +soon, for we are cut off, and the end may come any hour." + +Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post, and knew from Hilton all there +was to know. At once Pierre began to gather men, though what one or many +could do none could say. Eight white men and three Indians watched the +wild duck sailing away again from the bedroom window where Ida lay, to +carry a word of comfort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida asked for +Macavoy, and he was brought to her bedroom by Hilton. He saw a pale, +almost unearthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling with a coming +agony, looking up at him; and presently two trembling hands made those +mystic signs which are the primal language of the soul. Hilton +interpreted to him this: "I have sent for you. There is no man so big or +strong as you in the north. I did not know that I should ever ask you to +redeem the note. I want my gift, and I will give you your paper with the +Queen's head on it. Those little lives, those pretty little dears, you +will not see them die. If there is a way, any way, you will save them. +Sometimes one man can do what twenty cannot. You were my wedding-gift: +I claim you now." + +She paused, and then motioned to the nurse, who laid the piece of brown +paper in Macavoy's hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as if it +were a fragile bit of glass, something that his huge fingers might crush +by touching. Then he reached over and laid it on the bed beside her and +said, looking Hilton in the eyes, "Tell her, the slip av a saint she is, +if the breakin' av me bones, or the lettin' av me blood's what'll set all +right at Champak Hill, let her mind be aisy--aw yis!" + +Soon afterwards they were all on their way--all save Hilton, whose duty +was beside this other danger, for the old nurse said that, "like as not," +her life would hang upon the news from Champak Hill; and if ill came, his +place was beside the speechless traveller on the Brink. + +In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top of Champak Hill, looking +down. There stood the little house, as it were, between two dooms. Even +Pierre's face became drawn and pale as he saw what a very few hours or +minutes might do. Macavoy had spoken no word, had answered no question +since they had left the Post. There was in his eye the large +seriousness, the intentness which might be found in the face of a brave +boy, who had not learned fear, and yet saw a vast ditch of danger at +which he must leap. There was ever before him the face of the dumb wife; +there was in his ears the sound of pain that had followed him from +Hilton's house out into the brilliant day. + +The men stood helpless, and looked at each other. They could not say to +the river that it must rise no farther, and they could not go to the +house, nor let a rope down, and there was the crumbled moiety of the hill +which blocked the way to the house: elsewhere it was sheer precipice +without trees. + +There was no corner in these hills that Macavoy and Pierre did not know, +and at last, when despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy, having +spoken a low word to Pierre, said: "There's wan way, an' maybe I can an' +maybe I can't, but I'm fit to try. I'll go up the river to an aisy p'int +a mile above, get in, and drift down to a p'int below there, thin climb +up and loose the stuff." + +Every man present knew the double danger: the swift headlong river, and +the sudden rush of rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the side of +the narrow ravine opposite the little house. Macavoy had nothing to say +to the head-shakes of the others, and they did not try to dissuade him; +for women and children were in the question, and there they were below +beside the house, the children gathered round the mother, she waiting-- +waiting. + +Macavoy, stripped to the waist, and carrying only a hatchet and a coil of +rope tied round him, started away alone up the river. The others waited, +now and again calling comfort to the woman below, though their words +could not be heard. About half an hour passed, and then someone called +out: "Here he comes!" Presently they could see the rough head and the +bare shoulders of the giant in the wild churning stream. There was only +one point where he could get a hold on the hillside--the jutting bole of +a tree just beneath them, and beneath the dyke of rock and trees. + +It was a great moment. The current swayed him out, but he plunged +forward, catching at the bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held +him an instant, as he was swung round, then it snapt. But the other hand +clenched the bole, and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted, Macavoy +drew himself up. After that they could not see him. He alone was +studying the situation. + +He found the key-rock to the dyked slide of earth. To loosen it was to +divert the slide away, or partly away, from the little house. But it +could not be loosened from above, if at all, and he himself would be in +the path of the destroying hill. + +"Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy," he said to himself. "It's the woman and the +darlins av her, an' the rose o' the valley down there at the Post!" + +A minute afterwards, having chopped down a hickory sapling, he began to +pry at the boulder which held the mass. Presently a tree came crashing +down, and a small rush of earth followed it, and the hearts of the men +above and the woman and children below stood still for an instant. An +hour passed as Macavoy toiled with a strange careful skill and a +superhuman concentration. His body was all shining with sweat, and sweat +dripped like water from his forehead. His eyes were on the keyrock and +the pile, alert, measuring, intent. At last he paused. He looked round +at the hills-down at the river, up at the sky-humanity was shut away from +his sight. He was alone. A long hot breath broke from his pressed lips, +stirring his big red beard. Then he gave a call, a long call that echoed +through the hills weirdly and solemnly. + +It reached the ears of those above like a greeting from an outside world. +They answered, "Right, Macavoy!" + +Years afterwards these men told how then there came in reply one word, +ringing roundly through the hills--the note and symbol of a crisis, the +fantastic cipher of a soul: + +"M'Guire!" + +There was a loud booming sound, the dyke was loosed, the ravine split +into the swollen stream its choking mouthful of earth and rock; and a +minute afterwards the path was clear to the top of Champak Hill. To it +came the unharmed children and their mother, who, from the warm peak sent +the wild duck "to the rose o' the valley," which, till the message came, +was trembling on the stem of life. But Joy, that marvellous healer, kept +it blooming with a little Eden bird nestling near, whose happy tongue was +taught in after years to tell of the gift of the Simple King; who had +redeemed, on demand, the promissory note for ever. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +A human life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of time +Fear of one's own wife is the worst fear in the world +He never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it +Liars all men may be, but that's wid wimmin or landlords +Men are like dogs--they worship him who beats them +She valued what others found useless +Women are half saints, half fools + + + + + + +A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + +BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE" +AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 2. + + +MALACHI +THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE +THE RED PATROL +THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN +AT BAMBER'S BOOM + + + + +MALACHI + +"He'll swing just the same to-morrow. Exit Malachi!" said Freddy +Tarlton gravely. + +The door suddenly opened on the group of gossips, and a man stepped +inside and took the only vacant seat near the fire. He glanced at none, +but stretched out his hands to the heat, looking at the coals with +drooping introspective eyes. + +"Exit Malachi," he said presently in a soft ironical voice, but did not +look up. + +"By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you spring from?" asked Tarlton +genially. + +"The wind bloweth where it listeth, and--" Pierre responded, with a +little turn of his fingers. + +"And the wind doesn't tell where it's been, but that's no reason Pierre +shouldn't," urged the other. + +Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no answer. "He was a tough," +said a voice from the crowd. "To-morrow he'll get the breakfast he's +paid for." Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with a cold +inquisitive stare. "Mon Dieu!" he said presently, "here's this Gohawk +playing preacher. What do you know of Malachi, Gohawk? What do any of +you know about Malachi? A little of this, a little of that, a drink +here, a game of euchre there, a ride after cattle, a hunt behind Guidon +Hill!--But what is that? You have heard the cry of the eagle, you have +seen him carry off a lamb, you have had a pot-shot at him, but what do +you know of the eagle's nest? Mais non. + +"The lamb is one thing, the nest is another. You don't know the eagle +till you've been there. And you, Gohawk, would not understand, if you +saw the nest. Such cancan!" + +"Shut your mouth!" broke out Gohawk. "D'ye think I'm going to stand +your--" + +Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm. "Keep quiet, Gohawk. What good +will it do?" Then he said, "Tell us about the nest, Pierre; they're +hanging him for the lamb in the morning." + +"Who spoke for him at the trial?" Pierre asked. + +"I did," said Tarlton. "I spoke as well as I could, but the game was +dead against him from the start. The sheriff was popular, and young; +young--that was the thing; handsome too, and the women, of course! It +was sure from the start; besides, Malachi would say nothing--didn't seem +to care." + +"No, not to care," mused Pierre. "What did you say for him to the jury +--I mean the devil of a thing to make them sit up and think, 'Poor +Malachi!'--like that." + +"Best speech y'ever heard," Gohawk interjected; "just emptied the words +out, split 'em like peas, by gol! till he got to one place right before +the end. Then he pulled up sudden, and it got so quiet you could 'a +heard a pin drop. 'Gen'lemen of the jury,' says Freddy Tarlton here-- +gen'lemen, by gol! all that lot--Lagan and the rest! 'Gen'lemen of the +jury,' he says, 'be you danged well sure that you're at one with God +A'mighty in this; that you've got at the core of justice here; that +you've got evidence to satisfy Him who you've all got to satisfy some +day, or git out. Not evidence as to shootin', but evidence as to what +that shootin' meant, an' whether it was meant to kill, an' what for. +The case is like this, gen'lemen of the jury,' says Freddy Tarlton here. +'Two men are in a street alone. There's a shot, out comes everybody, and +sees Fargo the sheriff laid along the ground, his mouth in the dust, and +a full-up gun in his fingers. Not forty feet away stands Malachi with a +gun smokin' in his fist. It seems to be the opinion that it was +cussedness--just cussedness--that made Malachi turn the sheriff's boots +to the sun. For Malachi was quarrelsome. I'll give you a quarter on +that. And the sheriff was mettlesome, used to have high spirits, like as +if he's lift himself over the fence with his bootstraps. So when Malachi +come and saw the sheriff steppin' round in his paten' leathers, it give +him the needle, and he got a bead on him--and away went Sheriff Fargo-- +right away! That seems to be the sense of the public.' And he stops +again, soft and quick, and looks the twelve in the eyes at once. 'But,' +says Freddy Tarlton here, 'are you goin' to hang a man on the little you +know? Or are you goin' to credit him with somethin' of what you don't +know? You haint got the inside of this thing, and Malachi doesn't let +you know it, and God keeps quiet. But be danged well sure that you've +got the bulge on iniquity here; for gen'lemen with pistols out in the +street is one thing, and sittin' weavin' a rope in a court-room for a +man's neck is another thing,' says Freddy Tarlton here. 'My client has +refused to say one word this or that way, but don't be sure that Some One +that knows the inside of things won't speak for him in the end.' Then he +turns and looks at Malachi, and Malachi was standin' still and steady +like a tree, but his face was white, and sweat poured on his forehead. +'If God has no voice to be heard for my client in this court-room to-day, +is there no one on earth--no man or woman--who can speak for one who +won't speak for himself?' says Freddy Tarlton here. Then, by gol! for +the first time Malachi opened. 'There's no one,' he says. 'The speakin' +is all for the sheriff. But I spoke once, and the sheriff didn't +answer.' Not a bit of beg-yer-pardon in it. It struck cold. 'I leave +his case in the hands of twelve true men,' says Freddy Tarlton here, and +he sits down." + +"So they said he must walk the air?" suggested Pierre. + +"Without leavin' their seats," someone added instantly. + +"So. But that speech of 'Freddy Tarlton here'?" "It was worth twelve +drinks to me, no more, and nothing at all to Malachi," said Tarlton. +"When I said I'd come to him to-night to cheer him up, he said he'd +rather sleep. The missionary, too, he can make nothing of him. 'I don't +need anyone here,' he says. 'I eat this off my own plate.' And that's +the end of Malachi." + +"Because there was no one to speak for him--eh? Well, well." + +"If he'd said anything that'd justify the thing--make it a manslaughter +business or a quarrel--then! But no, not a word, up or down, high or +low. Exit Malachi!" rejoined Freddy Tarlton sorrowfully. "I wish he'd +given me half a chance." + +"I wish I'd been there," said Pierre, taking a match from Gohawk, and +lighting his cigarette. + +"To hear his speech?" asked Gohawk, nodding towards Tarlton. + +"To tell the truth about it all. T'sh, you bats, you sheep, what have +you in your skulls? When a man will not speak, will not lie to gain a +case for his lawyer--or save himself, there is something! Now, listen to +me, and I will tell you the story of Malachi. Then you shall judge. + +"I never saw such a face as that girl had down there at Lachine in +Quebec. I knew her when she was a child, and I knew Malachi when he was +on the river with the rafts, the foreman of a gang. He had a look all +open then as the sun--yes. Happy? Yes, as happy as a man ought to be. +Well, the mother of the child died, and Malachi alone was left to take +care of the little Norice. He left the river and went to work in the +mills, so that he might be with the child; and when he got to be foreman +there he used to bring her to the mill. He had a basket swung for her +just inside the mill not far from him, right where she was in the shade; +but if she stretched out her hand it would be in the sun. I've seen a +hundred men turn to look at her where she swung, singing to herself, and +then chuckle to themselves afterwards as they worked. + +"When Trevoor, the owner, come one day, and saw her, he swore, and was +going to sack Malachi, but the child--that little Norice--leaned over the +basket, and offered him an apple. He looked for a minute, then he +reached up, took the apple, turned round, and went out of the mill +without a word--so. Next month when he come he walked straight to her, +and handed up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle. 'That's to call +me when you want me,' he said, as he put the whistle to her lips, and +then he put the gold string of it round her neck. She was a wise little +thing, that Norice, and noticed things. I don't believe that Trevoor or +Malachi ever knew how sweet was the smell of the fresh sawdust till she +held it to their noses; and it was she that had the saws--all sizes-- +start one after the other, making so strange a tune. She made up a +little song about fairies and others to sing to that tune. And no one +ever thought much about Indian Island, off beyond the sweating, baking +piles of lumber, and the blistering logs and timbers in the bay, till she +told stories about it. Sure enough, when you saw the shut doors and open +windows of those empty houses, all white without in the sun and dark +within, and not a human to be seen, you could believe almost anything. +You can think how proud Malachi was. She used to get plenty of presents +from the men who had no wives or children to care for--little silver and +gold things as well as others. She was fond of them, but no, not vain. +She loved the gold and silver for their own sake." + +Pierre paused. "I knew a youngster once," said Gohawk, "that--" + +Pierre waved his hand. "I am not through, M'sieu' Gohawk the talker. +Years went on. Now she took care of the house of Malachi. She wore the +whistle that Trevoor gave her. He kept saying to her still, 'If ever you +need me, little Norice, blow it, and I will come.' He was droll, that +M'sieu' Trevoor, at times. Well, she did not blow, but still he used to +come every year, and always brought her something. One year he brought +his nephew, a young fellow of about twenty-three. She did not whistle +for him either, but he kept on coming. That was the beginning of 'Exit +Malachi.' The man was clever and bad, the girl believing and good. He +was young, but he knew how to win a woman's heart. When that is done, +there is nothing more to do--she is yours for good or evil; and if a man, +through a woman's love, makes her to sin, even his mother cannot be proud +of him-no. But the man married Norice, and took her away to Madison, +down in Wisconsin. Malachi was left alone--Malachi and Trevoor, for +Trevoor felt towards her as a father. + +"Alors, sorrow come to the girl, for her husband began to play cards +and to drink, and he lost much money. There was the trouble--the two +together. They lived in a hotel. One day a lady missed a diamond +necklace from her room. Norice had been with her the evening before. +Norice come into her own room the next afternoon, and found detectives +searching. In her own jewel-case, which was tucked away in the pocket +of an old dress, was found the necklace. She was arrested. She said +nothing--for she waited for her husband, who was out of town that day. +He only come in time to see her in court next morning. She did not deny +anything; she was quiet, like Malachi. The man played his part well. +He had hid the necklace where he thought it would be safe, but when it +was found, he let the wife take the blame--a little innocent thing. +People were sorry for them both. She was sent to jail. Her father was +away in the Rocky Mountains, and he did not hear; Trevoor was in Europe. +The husband got a divorce, and was gone. Norice was in jail for over +a year, and then she was set free, for her health went bad, and her mind +was going, they thought. She did not know till she come out that she was +divorced. Then she nearly died. But then Trevoor come." + +Freddy Tarlton's hands were cold with excitement, and his fingers +trembled so he could hardly light a cigar. + +"Go on, go on, Pierre," he said huskily. + +"Trevoor said to her--he told me this himself--'Why did you not whistle +for me, Norice? A word would have brought me from Europe.' 'No one could +help me, no one at all,' she answered. Then Trevoor said, 'I know who +did it, for he has robbed me too.' She sank in a heap on the floor. +'I could have borne it and anything for him, if he hadn't divorced me,' +she said. Then they cleared her name before the world. But where was +the man? No one knew. At last Malachi, in the Rocky Mountains, heard of +her trouble, for Norice wrote to him, but told him not to do the man any +harm, if he ever found him--ah, a woman, a woman! . . . But Malachi +met the man one day at Guidon Hill, and shot him in the street." + +"Fargo the sheriff!" roared half-a-dozen voices. "Yes; he had changed +his name, had come up here, and because he was clever and spent money, +and had a pull on someone,--got it at cards perhaps,--he was made +sheriff." + +"In God's name, why didn't Malachi speak?" said Tarlton; "why didn't he +tell me this?" + +"Because he and I had our own plans. The one evidence he wanted was +Norice. If she would come to him in his danger, and in spite of his +killing the man, good. If not, then he would die. Well, I went to find +her and fetch her. I found her. There was no way to send word, so we +had to come on as fast as we could. We have come just in time." + +"Do you mean to say, Pierre, that she's here?" said Gohawk. + +Pierre waved his hand emphatically. "And so we came on with a pardon." + +Every man was on his feet, every man's tongue was loosed, and each +ordered liquor for Pierre, and asked him where the girl was. Freddy +Tarlton wrung his hand, and called a boy to go to his rooms and bring +three bottles of wine, which he had kept for two years, to drink when he +had won his first big case. + +Gohawk was importunate. "Where is the girl, Pierre?" he urged. + +"Such a fool as you are, Gohawk! She is with her father." + +A half-hour later, in a large sitting-room, Freddy Tarlton was making +eloquent toasts over the wine. As they all stood drinking to Pierre, +the door opened from the hall-way, and Malachi stood before them. At his +shoulder was a face, wistful, worn, yet with a kind of happiness too; and +the eyes had depths which any man might be glad to drown his heart in. + +Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe or awkwardness fell on the +group at the table. + +But Norice stepped forward a little, and said: "May we come in?" + +In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side, and had her by the hand, +her and her father, drawing them over. + +His ardent, admiring look gave Norice thought for many a day. + +And that night Pierre made an accurate prophecy. + + + + + + +THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE + +When Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it was so called, Pierre said: +"Because of the Great Slave;" and then paused. + +Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his whims. If he wished to tell, +he would in his own time; if not, nothing could draw it from him. It was +nearly an hour before Pierre, eased off from the puzzle he was solving +with bits of paper and obliged Tybalt. He began as if they had been +speaking the moment before: + +"They have said it is legend, but I know better. I have seen the records +of the Company, and it is all there. I was at Fort O'Glory once, and in +a box two hundred years old the factor and I found it. There were other +papers, and some of them had large red seals, and a name scrawled along +the end of the page." + +Pierre shook his head, as if in contented musing. He was a born story- +teller. Tybalt was aching with interest, for he scented a thing of note. + +"How did any of those papers, signed with a scrawl, begin?" he asked. + +"'To our dearly-beloved,' or something like that," answered Pierre. +"There were letters also. Two of them were full of harsh words, and +these were signed with the scrawl." + +"What was that scrawl?" asked Tybalt. + +Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two words with his finger. "Like +that," he answered. + +Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and then drew a long breath. +"Charles Rex," he said, hardly above his breath. + +Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance. "That name was droll, eh?" + +Tybalt's blood was tingling with the joy of discovery. "It is a great +name," he said shortly. + +"The Slave was great--the Indians said so at the last." + +"But that was not the name of the Slave?" + +"Mais non. Who said so! Charles Rex--like that! was the man who wrote +the letters." + +"To the Great Slave?" + +Pierre made a gesture of impatience. "Very sure." + +"Where are those letters now?" + +"With the Governor of the Company." Tybalt cut the tobacco for his pipe +savagely. "You'd have liked one of those papers?" asked Pierre +provokingly. + +"I'd give five hundred dollars for one," broke out Tybalt. + +Pierre lifted his eyebrows. "T'sh, what's the good of five hundred +dollars up here? What would you do with a letter like that?" + +Tybalt laughed with a touch of irony, for Pierre was clearly "rubbing it +in." + +"Perhaps for a book?" gently asked Pierre. + +"Yes, if you like." + +"It is a pity. But there is a way." + +"How?" + +"Put me in the book. Then--" + +"How does that touch the case?" + +Pierre shrugged a shoulder gently, for he thought Tybalt was unusually +obtuse. Tybalt thought so himself before the episode ended. + +"Go on," he said, with clouded brow, but interested eye. Then, as if +with sudden thought: "To whom were the letters addressed, Pierre?" + +"Wait!" was the reply. "One letter said: 'Good cousin, We are evermore +glad to have thee and thy most excelling mistress near us. So, fail us +not at our cheerful doings, yonder at Highgate.' Another--a year after-- +said: 'Cousin, for the sweetening of our mind, get thee gone into some +distant corner of our pasturage--the farthest doth please us most. We +would not have thee on foreign ground, for we bear no ill-will to our +brother princes, and yet we would not have thee near our garden of good +loyal souls, for thou hast a rebel heart and a tongue of divers tunes. +Thou lovest not the good old song of duty to thy prince. Obeying us, +thy lady shall keep thine estates untouched; failing obedience, thou wilt +make more than thy prince unhappy. Fare thee well.' That was the way of +two letters," said Pierre. + +"How do you remember so?" + +Pierre shrugged a shoulder again. "It is easy with things like that." + +"But word for word?" + +"I learned it word for word." + +"Now for the story of the Lake--if you won't tell me the name of the +man." + +"The name afterwards-perhaps. Well, he came to that farthest corner of +the pasturage, to the Hudson's Bay country, two hundred years ago. What +do you think? Was he so sick of all, that he would go so far he could +never get back? Maybe those 'cheerful doings' at Highgate, eh? And the +lady--who can tell?" + +Tybalt seized Pierre's arm. "You know more. Damnation, can't you see +I'm on needles to hear? Was there anything in the letters about the lady? +Anything more than you've told?" + +Pierre liked no man's hand on him. He glanced down at the eager fingers, +and said coldly: + +"You are a great man; you can tell a story in many ways, but I in one way +alone, and that is my way--mais oui!" + +"Very well, take your own time." + +"Bien. I got the story from two heads. If you hear a thing like that +from Indians, you call it 'legend'; if from the Company's papers, you +call it 'history.' Well, in this there is not much difference. The +papers tell precise the facts; the legend gives the feeling, is more +true. How can you judge the facts if you don't know the feeling? No! +what is bad turns good sometimes, when you know the how, the feeling, the +place. Well, this story of the Great Slave--eh? . . . There is a +race of Indians in the far north who have hair so brown like yours, +m'sieu', and eyes no darker. It is said they are of those that lived at +the Pole, before the sea swamped the Isthmus, and swallowed up so many +islands. So. In those days the fair race came to the south for the +first time, that is, far below the Circle. They had their women with +them. I have seen those of to-day: fine and tall, with breasts like +apples, and a cheek to tempt a man like you, m'sieu'; no grease in the +hair--no, M'sieu' Tybalt." + +Tybalt sat moveless under the obvious irony, but his eyes were fixed +intently on Pierre, his mind ever travelling far ahead of the tale. + +"Alors: the 'good cousin' of Charles Rex, he made a journey with two men +to the Far-off Metal River, and one day this tribe from the north come on +his camp. It was summer, and they were camping in the Valley of the +Young Moon, more sweet, they say, than any in the north. The Indians +cornered them. There was a fight, and one of the Company's men was +killed, and five of the other. But when the king of the people of the +Pole saw that the great man was fair of face, he called for the fight to +stop. + +"There was a big talk all by signs, and the king said for the great +man to come and be one with them, for they liked his fair face--their +forefathers were fair like him. He should have the noblest of their +women for his wife, and be a prince among them. He would not go: so they +drew away again and fought. A stone-axe brought the great man to the +ground. He was stunned, not killed. Then the other man gave up, and +said he would be one of them if they would take him. They would have +killed him but for one of their women. She said that he should live to +tell them tales of the south country and the strange people, when they +came again to their camp-fires. So they let him live, and he was one of +them. But the chief man, because he was stubborn and scorned them, and +had killed the son of their king in the fight, they made a slave, and +carried him north a captive, till they came to this lake--the Lake of the +Great Slave. + +"In all ways they tried him, but he would not yield, neither to wear +their dress nor to worship their gods. He was robbed of his clothes, +of his gold-handled dagger, his belt of silk and silver, his carbine +with rich chasing, and all, and he was among them almost naked,--it was +summer, as I said, yet defying them. He was taller by a head than any +of them, and his white skin rippled in the sun like soft steel." + +Tybalt was inclined to ask Pierre how he knew all this, but he held his +peace. Pierre, as if divining his thoughts, continued: + +"You ask how I know these things. Very good: there are the legends, and +there were the papers of the Company. The Indians tried every way, but +it was no use; he would have nothing to say to them. At last they came +to this lake. Now something great occurred. The woman who had been the +wife of the king's dead son, her heart went out in love of the Great +Slave; but he never looked at her. One day there were great sports, for +it was the feast of the Red Star. The young men did feats of strength, +here on this ground where we sit. The king's wife called out for the +Great Slave to measure strength with them all. He would not stir. The +king commanded him; still he would not, but stood among them silent and +looking far away over their heads. At last, two young men of good height +and bone threw arrows at his bare breast. The blood came in spots. Then +he gave a cry through his beard, and was on them like a lion. He caught +them, one in each arm, swung them from the ground, and brought their +heads together with a crash, breaking their skulls, and dropped them at +his feet. Catching up a long spear, he waited for the rest. But they +did not come, for, with a loud voice, the king told them to fall back, +and went and felt the bodies of the men. One of them was dead; the other +was his second son--he would live. + +"'It is a great deed,' said the king, 'for these were no children, but +strong men.' + +"Then again he offered the Great Slave women to marry, and fifty tents of +deerskin for the making of a village. But the Great Slave said no, and +asked to be sent back to Fort O'Glory. + +"The king refused. But that night, as he slept in his tent, the girl- +widow came to him, waked him, and told him to follow her. He came forth, +and she led him softly through the silent camp to that wood which we see +over there. He told her she need not go on. Without a word, she reached +over and kissed him on the breast. Then he understood. He told her that +she could not come with him, for there was that lady in England--his +wife, eh? But never mind, that will come. He was too great to save his +life, or be free at the price. Some are born that way. They have their +own commandments, and they keep them. + +"He told her that she must go back. She gave a little cry, and sank down +at his feet, saying that her life would be in danger if she went back. + +"Then he told her to come, for it was in his mind to bring her to Fort +O'Glory, where she could marry an Indian there. But now she would not go +with him, and turned towards the village. A woman is a strange creature +--yes, like that! He refused to go and leave her. She was in danger, +and he would share it, whatever it might be. So, though she prayed him +not, he went back with her; and when she saw that he would go in spite of +all, she was glad: which is like a woman. + +"When he entered the tent again, he guessed her danger, for he stepped +over the bodies of two dead men. She had killed them. As she turned at +the door to go to her own tent, another woman faced her. It was the wife +of the king, who had suspected, and had now found out. Who can tell what +it was? Jealousy, perhaps. The Great Slave could tell, maybe, if he +could speak, for a man always knows when a woman sets him high. Anyhow, +that was the way it stood. In a moment the girl was marched back to her +tent, and all the camp heard a wicked lie of the widow of the king's son. + +"To it there was an end after the way of their laws. + +"The woman should die by fire, and the man, as the king might will. So +there was a great gathering in the place where we are, and the king sat +against that big white stone, which is now as it was then. Silence was +called, and they brought the girl-widow forth. The king spoke: + +"'Thou who hadst a prince for thy husband, didst go in the night to the +tent of the slave who killed thy husband; whereby thou also becamest a +slave, and didst shame the greatness which was given thee. Thou shalt +die, as has been set in our laws.' + +"The girl-widow rose, and spoke. 'I did not know, O king, that he whom +thou madest a slave slew my husband, the prince of our people, and thy +son. That was not told me. But had I known it, still would I have set +him free, for thy son was killed in fair battle, and this man deserves +not slavery or torture. I did seek the tent of the Great Slave, and it +was to set him free--no more. For that did I go, and, for the rest, my +soul is open to the Spirit Who Sees. I have done naught, and never did, +nor ever will, that might shame a king, or the daughter of a king, or the +wife of a king, or a woman. If to set a great captive free is death for +me, then am I ready. I will answer all pure women in the far Camp of the +Great Fires without fear. There is no more, O king, that I may say, but +this: she who dies by fire, being of noble blood, may choose who shall +light the faggots--is it not so?' + +"Then the king replied: 'It is so. Such is our law.' + +"There was counselling between the king and his oldest men, and so long +were they handling the matter backwards and forwards that it seemed she +might go free. But the king's wife, seeing, came and spoke to the king +and the others, crying out for the honour of her dead son; so that in a +moment of anger they all cried out for death. + +"When the king said again to the girl that she must die by fire, she +answered: 'It is as the gods will. But it is so, as I said, that I may +choose who shall light the fires?' + +"The king answered yes, and asked her whom she chose. She pointed +towards the Great Slave. And all, even the king and his councillors, +wondered, for they knew little of the heart of women. What is a man with +a matter like that? Nothing--nothing at all. They would have set this +for punishment: that she should ask for it was beyond them. Yes, even +the king's wife--it was beyond her. But the girl herself, see you, was +it not this way?--If she died by the hand of him she loved, then it would +be easy, for she could forget the pain, in the thought that his heart +would ache for her, and that at the very last he might care, and she +should see it. She was great in her way also--that girl, two hundred +years ago. + +"Alors, they led her a little distance off,--there is the spot, where +you see the ground heave a little, and the Great Slave was brought up. +The king told him why the girl was to die. He went like stone, looking, +looking at them. He knew that the girl's heart was like a little +child's, and the shame and cruelty of the thing froze him silent for a +minute, and the colour flew from his face to here and there on his body, +as a flame on marble. The cords began to beat and throb in his neck and +on his forehead, and his eyes gave out fire like flint on an arrow-head. + +"Then he began to talk. He could not say much, for he knew so little of +their language. But it was 'No!' every other word. 'No--no--no--no!' +the words ringing from his chest. 'She is good!' he said. 'The other- +no!' and he made a motion with his hand. 'She must not die--no! Evil? +It is a lie! I will kill each man that says it, one by one, if he dares +come forth. She tried to save me--well?' Then he made them know that he +was of high place in a far country, and that a man like him would not +tell a lie. That pleased the king, for he was proud, and he saw that the +Slave was of better stuff than himself. Besides, the king was a brave +man, and he had strength, and more than once he had laid his hand on the +chest of the other, as one might on a grand animal. Perhaps, even then, +they might have spared the girl was it not for the queen. She would not +hear of it. Then they tried the Great Slave, and he was found guilty. +The queen sent him word to beg for pardon. So he stood out and spoke to +the queen. She sat up straight, with pride in her eyes, for was it not a +great prince, as she thought, asking? But a cloud fell on her face, for +he begged the girl's life. Since there must be death, let him die, and +die by fire in her place! It was then two women cried out: the poor girl +for joy--not at the thought that her life would be saved, but because she +thought the man loved her now, or he would not offer to die for her; and +the queen for hate, because she thought the same. You can guess the +rest: they were both to die, though the king was sorry for the man. + +"The king's speaker stood out and asked them if they had anything to say. +The girl stepped forward, her face without any fear, but a kind of noble +pride in it, and said: 'I am ready, O king.' + +"The Great Slave bowed his head, and was thinking much. They asked him +again, and he waved his hand at them. The king spoke up in anger, and +then he smiled and said: 'O king, I am not ready; if I die, I die.' Then +he fell to thinking again. But once more the king spoke: 'Thou shalt +surely die, but not by fire, nor now; nor till we have come to our great +camp in our own country. There thou shalt die. But the woman shall die +at the going down of the sun. She shall die by fire, and thou shalt +light the faggots for the burning.' + +"The Great Slave said he would not do it, not though he should die a +hundred deaths. Then the king said that it was the woman's right to +choose who should start the fire, and he had given his word, which +should not be broken. + +"When the Great Slave heard this he was wild for a little, and then he +guessed altogether what was in the girl's mind. Was not this the true +thing in her, the very truest? Mais oui! That was what she wished-- +to die by his hand rather than by any other; and something troubled his +breast, and a cloud came in his eyes, so that for a moment he could not +see. He looked at the girl, so serious, eye to eye. Perhaps she +understood. So, after a time, he got calm as the farthest light in the +sky, his face shining among them all with a look none could read. He sat +down, and wrote upon pieces of bark with a spear-point--those bits of +bark I have seen also at Fort O'Glory. He pierced them through with +dried strings of the slippery-elm tree, and with the king's consent gave +them to the Company's man, who had become one of the people, telling him, +if ever he was free, or could send them to the Company, he must do so. +The man promised, and shame came upon him that he had let the other +suffer alone; and he said he was willing to fight and die if the Great +Slave gave the word. But he would not; and he urged that it was right +for the man to save his life. For himself, no. It could never be; and +if he must die, he must die. + +"You see, a great man must always live alone and die alone, when there +are only such people about him. So, now that the letters were written, +he sat upon the ground and thought, looking often towards the girl, who +was placed apart, with guards near. The king sat thinking also. He +could not guess why the Great Slave should give the letters now, since +he was not yet to die, nor could the Company's man show a reason when the +king asked him. So the king waited, and told the guards to see that the +Great Slave did not kill himself. + +"But the queen wanted the death of the girl, and was glad beyond telling +that the Slave must light the faggots. She was glad when she saw the +young braves bring a long sapling from the forest, and, digging a hole, +put it stoutly in the ground, and fetch wood, and heap it about. + +"The Great Slave noted that the bark of the sapling had not been +stripped, and more than once he measured, with his eye, the space between +the stake and the shores of the Lake: he did this most private, so that +no one saw but the girl. + +"At last the time was come. The Lake was all rose and gold out there in +the west, and the water so still so still. The cool, moist scent of the +leaves and grass came out from the woods and up from the plain, and the +world was so full of content that a man's heart could cry out, even as +now, while we look--eh, is it not good? See the deer drinking on the +other shore there!" Suddenly Pierre became silent, as if he had +forgotten the story altogether. Tybalt was impatient, but he did not +speak. He took a twig, and in the sand he wrote "Charles Rex." Pierre +glanced down and saw it. + +"There was beating of the little drums," he continued, "and the crying of +the king's speaker; and soon all was ready, and the people gathered at a +distance, and the king and the queen, and the chief men nearer; and the +girl was brought forth. + +"As they led her past the Great Slave, she looked into his eyes, and +afterwards her heart was glad, for she knew that at the last he would be +near her, and that his hand should light the fires. Two men tied her to +the stake. Then the king's man cried out again, telling of her crime, +and calling for her death. The Great Slave was brought near. No one +knew that the palms of his hands had been rubbed in the sand for a +purpose. When he was brought beside the stake, a torch was given him by +his guards. He looked at the girl, and she smiled at him, and said: +'Good-bye. Forgive. I die not afraid, and happy.' + +"He did not answer, but stooped and lit the sticks here and there. All +at once he snatched a burning stick, and it and the torch he thrust, like +lightning, in the faces of his guards, blinding them. Then he sprang to +the stake, and, with a huge pull, tore it from the ground, girl and all, +and rushed to the shore of the Lake, with her tied so in his arms. + +"He had been so swift that, at first, no one stirred. He reached the +shore, rushed into the water, dragging a boat out with one hand as he did +so, and, putting the girl in, seized a paddle and was away with a start. +A few strokes, and then he stopped, picked up a hatchet that was in the +boat with many spears, and freed the girl. Then he paddled on, trusting, +with a small hope, that through his great strength he could keep ahead +till darkness came, and then, in the gloom, they might escape. The girl +also seized an oar, and the canoe--the king's own canoe--came on like a +swallow. + +"But the tribe was after them in fifty canoes, some coming straight +along, some spreading out to close in later. It was no equal game, for +these people were so quick and strong with the oars, and they were a +hundred or more to two. There could be but one end. It was what the +Great Slave had looked for: to fight till the last breath. He should +fight for the woman who had risked all for him--just a common woman of +the north, but it seemed good to lose his life for her; and she would +be happy to die with him. + +"So they stood side by side when the spears and arrows fell round them, +and they gave death and wounds for wounds in their own bodies. When, at +last, the Indians climbed into the canoe, the Great Slave was dead of +many wounds, and the woman, all gashed, lay with her lips to his wet, red +cheek. She smiled as they dragged her away; and her soul hurried after +his to the Camp of the Great Fires." + +It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last he said: If I could but tell +it as you have told it to me, Pierre!" Pierre answered: "Tell it with +your tongue, and this shall be nothing to it, for what am I? What +English have I, a gipsy of the snows? But do not write it, mais non! +Writing wanders from the matter. The eyes, and the tongue, and the time, +that is the thing. But in a book--it will sound all cold and thin. It +is for the north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk before a man rolls +into his blanket, and is at peace. No, no writing, monsieur. Speak it +everywhere with your tongue." + +"And so I would, were my tongue as yours. Pierre, tell me more about the +letters at Fort O'Glory. You know his name--what was it?" + +"You said five hundred dollars for one of those letters. Is it not?" + +"Yes." Tybalt had a new hope. + +"T'sh! What do I want of five hundred dollars! But, here, answer me a +question: Was the lady--his wife, she that was left in England--a good +woman? Answer me out of your own sense, and from my story. If you say +right you shall have a letter--one that I have by me." + +Tybalt's heart leapt into his throat. After a little he said huskily: +"She was a good woman--he believed her that, and so shall I." + +"You think he could not have been so great unless, eh? And that 'Charles +Rex,' what of him?" + +"What good can it do to call him bad now?" Without a word, Pierre drew +from a leather wallet a letter, and, by the light of the fast-setting +sun, Tybalt read it, then read it again, and yet again. + +"Poor soul! poor lady!" he said. "Was ever such another letter written +to any man? And it came too late; this, with the king's recall, came too +late!" + +"So--so. He died out there where that wild duck flies--a Great Slave. +Years after, the Company's man brought word of all." + +Tybalt was looking at the name on the outside of the letter. + +"How do they call that name?" asked Pierre. "It is like none I've seen +--no." + +Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did not answer. + + + + + + +THE RED PATROL + +St. Augustine's, Canterbury, had given him its licentiate's hood, the +Bishop of Rupert's Land had ordained him, and the North had swallowed him +up. He had gone forth with surplice, stole, hood, a sermon-case, the +prayer-book, and that other Book of all. Indian camps, trappers' huts, +and Company's posts had given him hospitality, and had heard him with +patience and consideration. At first he wore the surplice, stole, and +hood, took the eastward position, and intoned the service, and no man +said him nay, but watched him curiously and was sorrowful--he was so +youthful, clear of eye, and bent on doing heroical things. + +But little by little there came a change. The hood was left behind at +Fort O'Glory, where it provoked the derision of the Methodist missionary +who followed him; the sermon-case stayed at Fort O'Battle; and at last +the surplice itself was put by at the Company's post at Yellow Quill. +He was too excited and in earnest at first to see the effect of his +ministrations, but there came slowly over him the knowledge that he was +talking into space. He felt something returning on him out of the air +into which he talked, and buffeting him. It was the Spirit of the North, +in which lives the terror, the large heart of things, the soul of the +past. He awoke to his inadequacy, to the fact that all these men to whom +he talked, listened, and only listened, and treated him with a gentleness +which was almost pity--as one might a woman. He had talked doctrine, the +Church, the sacraments, and at Fort O'Battle he faced definitely the +futility of his work. What was to blame--the Church--religion--himself? + +It was at Fort O'Battle that he met Pierre, and heard a voice say over +his shoulder, as he walked out into the icy dusk: "The voice of one +crying in the wilderness . . . and he had sackcloth about his loins, +and his food was locusts and wild honey." + +He turned to see Pierre, who in the large room of the Post had sat and +watched him as he prayed and preached. He had remarked the keen, curious +eye, the musing look, the habitual disdain at the lips. It had all +touched him, confused him; and now he had a kind of anger. + +"You know it so well, why don't you preach yourself?" he said +feverishly. + +"I have been preaching all my life," Pierre answered drily. + +"The devil's games: cards and law-breaking; and you sneer at men who try +to bring lost sheep into the fold." + +"The fold of the Church--yes, I understand all that," Pierre answered. +"I have heard you and the priests of my father's Church talk. Which is +right? But as for me, I am a missionary. Cards, law-breaking--these are +what I have done; but these are not what I have preached." + +"What have you preached?" asked the other, walking on into the fast- +gathering night, beyond the Post and the Indian lodges, into the wastes +where frost and silence lived. + +Pierre waved his hand towards space. "This," he said suggestively. + +"What's this?" asked the other fretfully. + +"The thing you feel round you here." + +"I feel the cold," was the petulant reply. + +"I feel the immense, the far off," said Pierre slowly. + +The other did not understand as yet. "You've learned big words," he said +disdainfully. + +"No; big things," rejoined Pierre sharply--"a few." + +"Let me hear you preach them," half snarled Sherburne. + +"You will not like to hear them--no." + +"I'm not likely to think about them one way or another," was the +contemptuous reply. + +Pierre's eyes half closed. The young, impetuous half-baked college man. +To set his little knowledge against his own studious vagabondage! At +that instant he determined to play a game and win; to turn this man into +a vagabond also; to see John the Baptist become a Bedouin. He saw the +doubt, the uncertainty, the shattered vanity in the youth's mind, the +missionary's half retreat from his cause. A crisis was at hand. The +youth was fretful with his great theme, instead of being severe upon +himself. For days and days Pierre's presence had acted on Sherburne +silently but forcibly. He had listened to the vagabond's philosophy, +and knew that it was of a deeper--so much deeper--knowledge of life than +he himself possessed, and he knew also that it was terribly true; he was +not wise enough to see that it was only true in part. The influence had +been insidious, delicate, cunning, and he himself was only "a voice +crying in the wilderness," without the simple creed of that voice. He +knew that the Methodist missionary was believed in more, if less liked, +than himself. Pierre would work now with all the latent devilry of his +nature to unseat the man from his saddle. + +"You have missed the great thing, alors, though you have been up here two +years," he said. "You do not feel, you do not know. What good have you +done? Who has got on his knees and changed his life because of you? Who +has told his beads or longed for the Mass because of you? Tell me, who +has ever said, 'You have showed me how to live'? Even the women, though +they cry sometimes when you sing-song the prayers, go on just the same +when the little 'bless-you' is over. Why? Most of them know a better +thing than you tell them. Here is the truth: you are little--eh, so very +little. You never lied--direct; you never stole the waters that are +sweet; you never knew the big dreams that come with wine in the dead of +night; you never swore at your own soul and heard it laugh back at you; +you never put your face in the breast of a woman--do not look so wild at +me!--you never had a child; you never saw the world and yourself through +the doors of real life. You never have said, 'I am tired; I am sick +of all; I have seen all.' You have never felt what came after-- +understanding. Chut, your talk is for children--and missionaries. +You are a prophet without a call, you are a leader without a man to lead, +you are less than a child up here. For here the children feel a peace in +their blood when the stars come out, and a joy in their brains when the +dawn comes up and reaches a yellow hand to the Pole, and the west wind +shouts at them. Holy Mother! we in the far north, we feel things, for +all the great souls of the dead are up there at the Pole in the pleasant +land, and we have seen the Scarlet Hunter and the Kimash Hills. You have +seen nothing. You have only heard, and because, like a child, you have +never sinned, you come and preach to us!" + +The night was folding down fast, all the stars were shooting out into +their places, and in the north the white lights of the aurora were flying +to and fro. Pierre had spoken with a slow force and precision, yet, as +he went on, his eyes almost became fixed on those shifting flames, and a +deep look came into them, as he was moved by his own eloquence. Never in +his life had he made so long a speech at once. He paused, and then said +suddenly: "Come, let us run." + +He broke into a long, sliding trot, and Sherburne did the same. With +their arms gathered to their sides they ran for quite two miles without a +word, until the heavy breathing of the clergyman brought Pierre up +suddenly. + +"You do not run well," he said; "you do not run with the whole body. You +know so little. Did you ever think how much such men as Jacques Parfaite +know? The earth they read like a book, the sky like an animal's ways, +and a man's face like--like the writing on the wall." + +"Like the writing on the wall," said Sherburne, musing; for, under the +other's influence, his petulance was gone. He knew that he was not a +part of this life, that he was ignorant of it; of, indeed, all that was +vital in it and in men and women. + +"I think you began this too soon. You should have waited; then you might +have done good. But here we are wiser than you. You have no message-- +no real message--to give us; down in your heart you are not even sure of +yourself." + +Sherburne sighed. "I'm of no use," he said. "I'll get out. I'm no good +at all." + +Pierre's eyes glistened. He remembered how, the day before, this youth +had said hot words about his card-playing; had called him--in effect-- +a thief; had treated him as an inferior, as became one who was of St. +Augustine's, Canterbury. + +"It is the great thing to be free," Pierre said, "that no man shall look +for this or that of you. Just to do as far as you feel, as far as you +are sure--that is the best. In this you are not sure--no. Hein, is it +not?" + +Sherburne did not answer. Anger, distrust, wretchedness, the spirit of +the alien, loneliness, were alive in him. The magnetism of this deep +penetrating man, possessed of a devil, was on him, and in spite of every +reasonable instinct he turned to him for companionship. + +"It's been a failure," he burst out, "and I'm sick of it--sick of it; +but I can't give it up." + +Pierre said nothing. They had come to what seemed a vast semicircle of +ice and snow, a huge amphitheatre in the plains. It was wonderful: a +great round wall on which the northern lights played, into which the +stars peered. It was open towards the north, and in one side was a +fissure shaped like a Gothic arch. Pierre pointed to it, and they did +not speak till they had passed through it. Like great seats the steppes +of snow ranged round, and in the centre was a kind of plateau of ice, as +it might seem a stage or an altar. To the north there was a great +opening, the lost arc of the circle, through which the mystery of the +Pole swept in and out, or brooded there where no man may question it. +Pierre stood and looked. Time and again he had been here, and had asked +the same question: Who had ever sat on those frozen benches and looked +down at the drama on that stage below? Who played the parts? Was it a +farce or a sacrifice? To him had been given the sorrow of imagination, +and he wondered and wondered. Or did they come still--those strange +people, whoever they were--and watch ghostly gladiators at their fatal +sport? If they came, when was it? Perhaps they were there now unseen. +In spite of himself he shuddered. Who was the keeper of the house? + + +Through his mind there ran--pregnant to him for the first tine--a chanson +of the Scarlet Hunter, the Red Patrol, who guarded the sleepers in the +Kimash Hills against the time they should awake and possess the land once +more: the friend of the lost, the lover of the vagabond, and of all who +had no home: + + "Strangers come to the outer walls-- + (Why do the sleepers stir?) + Strangers enter the Judgment House-- + (Why do the sleepers sigh?) + Slow they rise in their judgment seats, + Sieve and measure the naked souls, + Then with a blessing return to sleep-- + (Quiet the Judgment House.) + Lone and sick are the vagrant souls-- + (When shall the world come home?)" + +He reflected upon the words, and a feeling of awe came over him, for he +had been in the White Valley and had seen the Scarlet Hunter. But there +came at once also a sinister desire to play a game for this man's life- +work here. He knew that the other was ready for any wild move; there was +upon him the sense of failure and disgust; he was acted on by the magic +of the night, the terrible delight of the scene, and that might be turned +to advantage. + +He said: "Am I not right? There is something in the world greater than +the creeds and the book of the Mass. To be free and to enjoy, that is +the thing. Never before have you felt what you feel here now. And I +will show you more. I will teach you how to know, I will lead you +through all the north and make you to understand the big things of life. +Then, when you have known, you can return if you will. But now--see: +I will tell you what I will do. Here on this great platform we will play +a game of cards. There is a man whose life I can ruin. If you win I +promise to leave him safe; and to go out of the far north for ever, to go +back to Quebec"--he had a kind of gaming fever in his veins. "If I win, +you give up the Church, leaving behind the prayerbook, the Bible and all, +coming with me to do what I shall tell you, for the passing of twelve +moons. It is a great stake--will you play it? Come"--he leaned forward, +looking into the other's face--"will you play it? They drew lots--those +people in the Bible. We will draw lots, and see, eh?--and see?" + +"I accept the stake," said Sherburne, with a little gasp. + +Without a word they went upon that platform, shaped like an altar, and +Pierre at once drew out a pack of cards, shuffling them with his mittened +hands. Then he knelt down and said, as he laid out the cards one by one +till there were thirty: "Whoever gets the ace of hearts first, wins-- +hein?" + +Sherburne nodded and knelt also. The cards lay back upwards in three +rows. For a moment neither stirred. The white, metallic stars saw it, +the small crescent moon beheld it, and the deep wonder of night made it +strange and dreadful. Once or twice Sherburne looked round as though he +felt others present, and once Pierre looked out to the wide portals, as +though he saw some one entering. But there was nothing to the eye-- +nothing. Presently Pierre said: "Begin." + +The other drew a card, then Pierre drew one, then the other, then Pierre +again; and so on. How slow the game was! Neither hurried, but both, +kneeling, looked and looked at the card long before drawing and turning +it over. The stake was weighty, and Pierre loved the game more than he +cared about the stake. Sherburne cared nothing about the game, but all +his soul seemed set upon the hazard. There was not a sound out of the +night, nothing stirring but the Spirit of the North. Twenty, twenty-five +cards were drawn, and then Pierre paused. + +"In a minute all will be settled," he said. "Will you go on, or will you +pause?" + +But Sherburne had got the madness of chance in his veins now, and he +said: "Quick, quick, go on!" Pierre drew, but the great card held back. +Sherburne drew, then Pierre again. There were three left. Sherburne's +face was as white as the snow around him. His mouth was open, and a +little white cloud of frosted breath came out. His hand hungered for the +card, drew back, then seized it. A moan broke from him. Then Pierre, +with a little weird laugh, reached out and turned over the ace of hearts! + +They both stood up. Pierre put the cards in his pocket. + +"You have lost," he said. + +Sherburne threw back his head with a reckless laugh. The laugh seemed to +echo and echo through the amphitheatre, and then from the frozen seats, +the hillocks of ice and snow, there was a long, low sound, as of sorrow, +and a voice came after: + +"Sleep--sleep! Blessed be the just and the keepers of vows." + +Sherburne stood shaking, as though he had seen a host of spirits. His +eyes on the great seats of judgment, he said to Pierre: + +"See, see, how they sit there, grey and cold and awful!" + +But Pierre shook his head. + +"There is nothing," he said, "nothing;" yet he knew that Sherburne was +looking upon the men of judgment of the Kimash Hills, the sleepers. He +looked round, half fearfully, for if here were those great children of +the ages, where was the keeper of the house, the Red Patrol? + +Even as he thought, a figure in scarlet with a noble face and a high +pride of bearing stood before them, not far away. Sherburne clutched his +arm. + +Then the Red Patrol, the Scarlet Hunter spoke: "Why have you sinned your +sins and broken your vows within our house of judgment? Know ye not that +in the new springtime of the world ye shall be outcast, because ye have +called the sleepers to judgment before their time? But I am the hunter +of the lost. Go you," he said to Sherburne, pointing, "where a sick man +lies in a hut in the Shikam Valley. In his soul find thine own again." +Then to Pierre: "For thee, thou shalt know the desert and the storm and +the lonely hills; thou shalt neither seek nor find. Go, and return no +more." + +The two men, Sherburne falteringly, stepped down and moved to the open +plain. They turned at the great entrance and looked back. Where they +had stood there rested on his long bow the Red Patrol. He raised it, and +a flaming arrow flew through the sky towards the south. They followed +its course, and when they looked back a little afterwards, the great +judgment-house was empty, and the whole north was silent as the sleepers. + +At dawn they came to the hut in the Shikam Valley, and there they found a +trapper dying. He had sinned greatly, and he could not die without +someone to show him how, to tell him what to say to the angel of the +cross-roads. + +Sherburne, kneeling by him, felt his own new soul moved by a holy fire, +and, first praying for himself, he said to the sick man: "For if we +confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, +and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness." + +Praying for both, his heart grew strong, and he heard the sick man say, +ere he journeyed forth to the crossroads: + +"You have shown me the way. I have peace." + +"Speak for me in the Presence," said Sherburne softly. + +The dying man could not answer, but that moment, as he journeyed forth on +the Far Trail, he held Sherburne's hand. + + + + + + +THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN + +"Why don't she come back, father?" + +The man shook his head, his hand fumbled with the wolf-skin robe covering +the child, and he made no reply. "She'd come if she knew I was hurted, +wouldn't she?" + +The father nodded, and then turned restlessly toward the door, as though +expecting someone. The look was troubled, and the pipe he held was not +alight, though he made a pretence of smoking. + +"Suppose the wild cat had got me, she'd be sorry when she comes, wouldn't +she?" + +There was no reply yet, save by gesture, the language of primitive man; +but the big body shivered a little, and the uncouth hand felt for a place +in the bed where the lad's knee made a lump under the robe. He felt the +little heap tenderly, but the child winced. + +"S-sh, but that hurts! This wolf-skin's most too much on me, isn't it, +father?" + +The man softly, yet awkwardly too, lifted the robe, folded it back, and +slowly uncovered the knee. The leg was worn away almost to skin and +bone, but the knee itself was swollen with inflammation. He bathed it +with some water, mixed with vinegar and herbs, then drew down the deer- +skin shirt at the child's shoulder, and did the same with it. Both +shoulder and knee bore the marks of teeth--where a huge wild cat had made +havoc--and the body had long red scratches. + +Presently the man shook his head sorrowfully, and covered up the small +disfigured frame again, but this time with a tanned skin of the caribou. +The flames of the huge wood fire dashed the walls and floor with a +velvety red and black, and the large iron kettle, bought of the Company +at Fort Sacrament, puffed out geysers of steam. + +The place was a low but with parchment windows and rough mud-mortar +lumped between the logs. Skins hung along two sides, with bullet-holes +and knife-holes showing: of the great grey wolf, the red puma, the bronze +hill-lion, the beaver, the bear, and the sable; and in one corner was a +huge pile of them. Bare of the usual comforts as the room was, it had a +sort of refinement also, joined to an inexpressible loneliness; you could +scarce have told how or why. + +"Father," said the boy, his face pinched with pain for a moment, "it +hurts so all over, every once in a while." + +His fingers caressed the leg just below the knee. "Father," he suddenly +added, "what does it mean when you hear a bird sing in the middle of the +night?" The woodsman looked down anxiously into the boy's face. "It +hasn't no meaning, Dominique. There ain't such a thing on the Labrador +Heights as a bird singin' in the night. That's only in warm countries +where there's nightingales. So--bien sur!" + +The boy had a wise, dreamy, speculative look. "Well, I guess it was a +nightingale--it didn't sing like any I ever heard." + +The look of nervousness deepened in the woodsman's face. "What did it +sing like, Dominique?" + +"So it made you shiver. You wanted it to go on, and yet you didn't want +it. It was pretty, but you felt as if something was going to snap inside +of you." + +"When did you hear it, my son?" + +"Twice last night--and--and I guess it was Sunday the other time. I +don't know, for there hasn't been no Sunday up here since mother went +away--has there?" + +"Mebbe not." + +The veins were beating like live cords in the man's throat and at his +temples. + +"'Twas just the same as Father Corraine bein' here, when mother had +Sunday, wasn't it?" + +The man made no reply, but a gloom drew down his forehead, and his lips +doubled in as if he endured physical pain. He got to his feet and paced +the floor. For weeks he had listened to the same kind of talk from this +wounded, and, as he thought, dying son, and he was getting less and less +able to bear it. The boy at nine years of age was, in manner of speech, +the merest child, but his thoughts were sometimes large and wise. The +only white child within a compass of three hundred miles or so; the +lonely life of the hills and plains, so austere in winter, so melted to a +sober joy in summer; listening to the talk of his elders at camp-fires +and on the hunting-trail, when, even as an infant almost, he was swung in +a blanket from a tree or was packed in the torch-crane of a canoe; and, +more than all, the care of a good, loving--if passionate--little mother: +all these had made him far wiser than his years. He had been hours upon +hours each day alone with the birds, and squirrels, and wild animals, and +something of the keen scent and instinct of the animal world had entered +into his body and brain, so that he felt what he could not understand. + +He saw that he had worried his father, and it troubled him. He thought +of something. "Daddy," he said, "let me have it." + +A smile struggled for life in the hunter's face, as he turned to the wall +and took down the skin of a silver fox. He held it on his palm for a +moment, looking at it in an interested, satisfied way, then he brought it +over and put it into the child's hands; and the smile now shaped itself, +as he saw an eager pale face buried in the soft fur. + +"Good! good!" he said involuntarily. + +"Bon! bon!" said the boy's voice from the fur, in the language of his +mother, who added a strain of Indian blood to her French ancestry. + +The two sat there, the man half-kneeling on the low bed, and stroking the +fur very gently. It could scarcely be thought that such pride should be +spent on a little pelt by a mere backwoodsman and his nine-year-old son. +One has seen a woman fingering a splendid necklace, her eyes fascinated +by the bunch of warm, deep jewels--a light not of mere vanity, or hunger, +or avarice in her face--only the love of the beautiful thing. But this +was an animal's skin. Did they feel the animal underneath it yet, giving +it beauty, life, glory? + +The silver-fox skin is the prize of the north, and this one was of the +boy's own harvesting. While his father was away he saw the fox creeping +by the hut. The joy of the hunter seized him, and guided his eye over +the sights of his father's rifle, as he rested the barrel on the window- +sill, and the animal was his! Now his finger ran into the hole made by +the bullet, and he gave a little laugh of modest triumph. Minutes passed +as they studied, felt, and admired the skin, the hunter proud of his son, +the son alive with a primitive passion, which inflicts suffering to get +the beautiful thing. Perhaps the tenderness as well as the wild passion +of the animal gets into the hunter's blood, and tips his fingers at times +with an exquisite kindness--as one has noted in a lion fondling her +young, or in tigers as they sport upon the sands of the desert. This boy +had seen his father shoot a splendid moose, and as it lay dying, drop +down and kiss it in the neck for sheer love of its handsomeness. Death +is no insult. It is the law of the primitive world--war, and love in +war. + +They sat there for a long time, not speaking, each busy in his own way: +the boy full of imaginings, strange, half-heathen, half-angelic feelings; +the man roaming in that savage, romantic, superstitious atmosphere which +belongs to the north, and to the north alone. At last the boy lay back +on the pillow, his finger still in the bullet-hole of the pelt. His eyes +closed, and he seemed about to fall asleep, but presently looked up and +whispered: "I haven't said my prayers, have I?" + +The father shook his head in a sort of rude confusion. + +"I can pray out loud if I want to, can't I?" + +"Of course, Dominique." The man shrank a little. + +"I forget a good many times, but I know one all right, for I said it when +the bird was singing. It isn't one out of the book Father Corraine sent +mother by Pretty Pierre; it's one she taught me out of her own head. +P'r'aps I'd better say it." + +"P'r'aps, if you want to." The voice was husky. The boy began: + +"O bon Jesu, who died to save us from our sins, and to lead us to Thy +country, where there is no cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where no one +is afraid, listen to Thy child. . . . When the great winds and rains +come down from the hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor the woods +cover us, nor the snow-slide bury us; and do not let the prairie-fires +burn us. Keep wild beasts from killing us in our sleep, and give us good +hearts that we may not kill them in anger." + +His finger twisted involuntarily into the bullet-hole in the pelt, and he +paused a moment. + +"Keep us from getting lost, O gracious Saviour." Again there was a +pause, his eyes opened wide, and he said: + +"Do you think mother's lost, father?" + +A heavy broken breath came from the father, and he replied haltingly: +"Mebbe, mebbe so." + +Dominique's eyes closed again. "I'll make up some," he said slowly. +"And if mother's lost, bring her back again to us, for everything's going +wrong." + +Again he paused, then went on with the prayer as it had been taught him. + +"Teach us to hear Thee whenever Thou callest, and to see Thee when Thou +visitest us, and let the blessed Mary and all the saints speak often to +Thee for us. O Christ, hear us. Lord, have mercy upon us. Christ have +mercy upon us. Amen." + +Making the sign of the cross, he lay back, and said "I'll go to sleep +now, I guess." + +The man sat for a long time looking at the pale, shining face, at the +blue veins showing painfully dark on the temples and forehead, at the +firm little white hand, which was as brown as a butternut a few weeks +before. The longer he sat, the deeper did his misery sink into his soul. +His wife had gone, he knew not where, his child was wasting to death, and +he had for his sorrows no inner consolation. He had ever had that touch +of mystical imagination inseparable from the far north, yet he had none +of that religious belief which swallowed up natural awe and turned it to +the refining of life, and to the advantage of a man's soul. Now it was +forced in upon him that his child was wiser than himself, wiser and +safer. His life had been spent in the wastes, with rough deeds and +rugged habits, and a youth of hardship, danger, and almost savage +endurance, had given him a half-barbarian temperament, which could +strike an angry blow at one moment and fondle to death at the next. + +When he married sweet Lucette Barbond his religion reached little farther +than a belief in the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills and those voices +that could be heard calling in the night, till their time of sleep be +past, and they should rise and reconquer the north. + +Not even Father Corraine, whose ways were like those of his Master, could +ever bring him to a more definite faith. His wife had at first striven +with him, mourning yet loving. Sometimes the savage in him had broken +out over the little creature, merely because barbaric tyranny was in him +--torture followed by the passionate kiss. But how was she philosopher +enough to understand the cause? + +When she fled from their hut one bitter day, as he roared some wild words +at her, it was because her nerves had all been shaken from threatened +death by wild beasts (of which he did not know), and his violence drove +her mad. She had run out of the house, and on, and on, and on--and she +had never come back. That was weeks ago, and there had been no word nor +sign of her since. The man was now busy with it all, in a slow, cumbrous +way. A nature more to be touched by things seen than by things told, his +mind was being awakened in a massive kind of fashion. He was viewing +this crisis of his life as one sees a human face in the wide searching +light of a great fire. He was restless, but he held himself still by a +strong effort, not wishing to disturb the sleeper. His eyes seemed to +retreat farther and farther back under his shaggy brows. + +The great logs in the chimney burned brilliantly, and a brass crucifix +over the child's head now and again reflected soft little flashes of +light. This caught the hunter's eye. Presently there grew up in him a +vague kind of hope that, somehow, this symbol would bring him luck--that +was the way he put it to himself. He had felt this--and something more-- +when Dominique prayed. Somehow, Dominique's prayer was the only one he +had ever heard that had gone home to him, had opened up the big sluices +of his nature, and let the light of God flood in. No, there was another: +the one Lucette made on the day that they were married, when a wonderful +timid reverence played through his hungry love for her. + +Hours passed. All at once, without any other motion or gesture, the +boy's eyes opened wide with a strange, intense look. + +"Father," he said slowly, and in a kind of dream, "when you hear a sweet +horn blow at night, is it the Scarlet Hunter calling?" + +"P'r'aps. Why, Dominique?" He made up his mind to humour the boy, +though it gave him strange aching forebodings. He had seen grown men +and women with these fancies--and they had died. + +"I heard one blowing just now, and the sounds seemed to wave over my +head. Perhaps he's calling someone that's lost." + +"Mebbe." + +"And I heard a voice singing--it wasn't a bird tonight." + +"There was no voice, Dominique." + +"Yes, yes." There was something fine in the grave, courteous certainty +of the lad. "I waked and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut my +eyes again, and I heard the voice. I remember the tune and the words." + +"What were the words?" In spite of himself the hunter felt awed. + +"I've heard mother sing them, or something most like them: + + "Why does the fire no longer burn? + (I am so lonely.) + Why does the tent-door swing outward? + (I have no home.) + Oh, let me breathe hard in your face! + (I am so lonely.) + Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me? + (I have no home.)" + +The boy paused. + +"Was that all, Dominique?" + +"No, not all." + + "Let us make friends with the stars; + (I am so lonely.) + Give me your hand, I will hold it. + (I have no home.) + Let us go hunting together. + (I am so lonely.) + We will sleep at God's camp to-night. + (I have no home.)" + +Dominique did not sing, but recited the words with a sort of chanting +inflection. + +"What does it mean when you hear a voice like that, father?" + +"I don't know. Who told--your mother--the song?" + +"Oh, I don't know. I suppose she just made them up--she and God. . . . +There! There it is again? Don't you hear it--don't you hear it, daddy?" + +"No, Dominique, it's only the kettle singing." + +"A kettle isn't a voice. Daddy--" He paused a little, then went on, +hesitatingly--"I saw a white swan fly through the door over your +shoulder, when you came in to-night." + +"No, no, Dominique; it was a flurry of snow blowing over my shoulder." + +"But it looked at me with two shining eyes." + +"That was two stars shining through the door, my son." + +"How could there be snow flying and stars shining too, father?" + +"It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but the stars were shining +above, Dominique." + +The man's voice was anxious and unconvincing, his eyes had a hungry, +hunted look. The legend of the White Swan had to do with the passing of +a human soul. The swan had come in--would it go out alone? He touched +the boy's hand--it was hot with fever; he felt the pulse--it ran high; +he watched the face--it had a glowing light. Something stirred within +him, and passed like a wave to the farthest courses of his being. +Through his misery he had touched the garment of the Master of Souls. +As though a voice said to him there, "Someone hath touched me," he got to +his feet, and, with a sudden blind humility, lit two candles, placed them +on a shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure of the Virgin, as he had +seen his wife do. Then he picked a small handful of fresh spruce twigs +from a branch over the chimney, and laid them beside the candles. After +a short pause he came slowly to the head of the boy's bed. Very solemnly +he touched the foot of the Christ on the cross with the tips of his +fingers, and brought them to his lips with an indescribable reverence. +After a moment, standing with eyes fixed on the face of the crucified +figure, he said, in a shaking voice: + +"Pardon, bon Jesu! Sauvez mon enfant! Ne me laissez pas seul!" + +The boy looked up with eyes again grown unnaturally heavy, and said: + +"Amen! . . . Bon Jesu ! . . . Encore! Encore, mon pere!" + +The boy slept. The father stood still by the bed for a time, but at last +slowly turned and went toward the fire. + +Outside, two figures were approaching the hut--a man and a woman; yet at +first glance the man might easily have been taken for a woman, because of +the long black robe which he wore, and because his hair fell loose on his +shoulders and his face was clean-shaven. + +"Have patience, my daughter," said the man. "Do not enter till I call +you. But stand close to the door, if you will, and hear all." + +So saying he raised his hand as in a kind of benediction, passed to the +door, and after tapping very softly, opened it, entered, and closed it +behind him-not so quickly, however, but that the woman caught a glimpse +of the father and the boy. In her eyes there was the divine look of +motherhood. + +"Peace be to this house!" said the man gently as he stepped forward from +the door. + +The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on him, as if he had seen a +spirit. + +"M'sieu' le cure!" he said in French, with an accent much poorer than +that of the priest, or even of his own son. He had learned French from +his wife; he himself was English. + +The priest's quick eye had taken in the lighted candles at the little +shrine, even as he saw the painfully changed aspect of the man. + +"The wife and child, Bagot?" he asked, looking round. "Ah, the boy!" +he added, and going toward the bed, continued, presently, in a low voice: +"Dominique is ill?" + +Bagot nodded, and then answered: "A wild-cat and then fever, Father +Corraine." + +The priest felt the boy's pulse softly, then with a close personal look +he spoke hardly above his breath, yet distinctly too: + +"Your wife, Bagot?" + +"She is not here, m'sieu'." The voice was low and gloomy. + +"Where is she, Bagot?" + +"I do not know, m'sieu'." + +"When did you see her last?" + +"Four weeks ago, m'sieu'." + +"That was September, this is October--winter. On the ranches they let +their cattle loose upon the plains in winter, knowing not where they go, +yet looking for them to return in the spring. But a woman--a woman and a +wife--is different. . . . Bagot, you have been a rough, hard man, and +you have been a stranger to your God, but I thought you loved your wife +and child!" + +The hunter's hands clenched, and a wicked light flashed up into his eyes; +but the calm, benignant gaze of the other cooled the tempest in his +veins. The priest sat down on the couch where the child lay, and took +the fevered hand in his very softly. + +"Stay where you are, Bagot," he said; "just there where you are, and tell +me what your trouble is, and why your wife is not here. . . . Say all +honestly--by the name of the Christ!" he added, lifting up a large iron +crucifix that hung on his breast. + +Bagot sat down on a bench near the fireplace, the light playing on his +bronzed, powerful face, his eyes shining beneath his heavy brows like two +coals. After a moment he began: + +"I don't know how it started. I'd lost a lot of pelts--stolen they were, +down on the Child o' Sin River. Well, she was hasty and nervous, like as +not--she always was brisker and more sudden than I am. I--I laid my +powder-horn and whisky-flask-up there!" + +He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin, where now his candles were +burning. The priest's grave eyes did not change expression at all, but +looked out wisely, as though he understood everything before it was told. + +Bagot continued: "I didn't notice it, but she had put some flowers there. +She said something with an edge, her face all snapping angry, threw the +things down, and called me a heathen and a wicked heretic--and I don't +say now but she'd a right to do it. But I let out then, for them stolen +pelts were rasping me on the raw. I said something pretty rough, and +made as if I was goin' to break her in two--just fetched up my hands, +and went like this!--" With a singular simplicity he made a wild gesture +with his hands, and an animal-like snarl came from his throat. Then he +looked at the priest with the honest intensity of a boy. + +"Yes, that is what you did--what was it you said which was 'pretty +rough'?" + +There was a slight hesitation, then came the reply: "I said there was +enough powder spilt on the floor to kill all the priests in heaven." + +A fire suddenly shot up into Father Corraine's face, and his lips +tightened for an instant, but presently he was as before, and he said: + +"How that will face you one day, Bagot! Go on. What else?" + +Sweat began to break out on Bagot's face, and he spoke as though he were +carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, low and brokenly. + +"Then I said, 'And if virgins has it so fine, why didn't you stay one?'" + +"Blasphemer!" said the priest in a stern, reproachful voice, his face +turning a little pale, and he brought the crucifix to his lips. "To the +mother of your child--shame! What more?" + +She threw up her hands to her ears with a wild cry, ran out of the +house, down the hills, and away. I went to the door and watched her as +long as I could see her, and waited for her to come back--but she never +did. + +"I've hunted and hunted, but I can't find her." Then, with a sudden +thought, "Do you know anything of her, m'sieu'?" + +The priest appeared not to hear the question. Turning for a moment +toward the boy who now was in a deep sleep, he looked at him intently. +Presently he spoke. + +"Ever since I married you and Lucette Barbond, you have stood in the way +of her duty, Bagot. How well I remember that first day when you knelt +before me! Was ever so sweet and good a girl--with her golden eyes and +the look of summer in her face, and her heart all pure! Nothing had +spoiled her--you cannot spoil such women--God is in their hearts. But +you, what have you cared? One day you would fondle her, and the next you +were a savage--and she, so gentle, so gentle all the time. Then, for her +religion and the faith of her child--she has fought for it, prayed for +it, suffered for it. You thought you had no need, for you had so much +happiness, which you did not deserve--that was it. But she: with all a +woman suffers, how can she bear life--and man--without God? No, it is +not possible. And you thought you and your few superstitions were enough +for her.--Ah, poor fool! She should worship you! So selfish, so small, +for a man who knows in his heart how great God is.--You did not love +her." + +"By the Heaven above, yes!" said Bagot, half starting to his feet. + +"Ah, 'by the Heaven above,' no! nor the child. For true love is +unselfish and patient, and where it is the stronger, it cares for the +weaker; but it was your wife who was unselfish, patient, and cared for +you. Every time she said an ave she thought of you, and her every thanks +to the good God had you therein. They know you well in heaven, Bagot-- +through your wife. Did you ever pray--ever since I married you to her?" + +"Yes." + +"When?" + +"An hour or so ago." + +Once again the priest's eyes glanced towards the lighted candles. + +Presently he said: "You asked me if I had heard anything of your wife. +Listen, and be patient while you listen. . . . Three weeks ago I was +camping on the Sundust Plains, over against the Young Sky River. In the +morning, as I was lighting a fire outside my tent, my young Cree Indian +with me, I saw coming over the crest of a land-wave, from the very lips +of the sunrise, as it were, a band of Indians. I could not quite make +them out. I hoisted my little flag on the tent, and they hurried on to +me. I did not know the tribe--they had come from near Hudson's Bay. +They spoke Chinook, and I could understand them. Well, as they came +near I saw that they had a woman with them." + +Bagot leaned forward, his body strained, every muscle tense. "A woman?" +he said, as if breathing gave him sorrow--"my wife?" + +"Your wife." + +"Quick! Quick! Go on--oh, go on, m'sieu'--good father." + +"She fell at my feet, begging me to save her. . . . I waved her off." + +The sweat dropped from Bagot's forehead, a low growl broke from him, +and he made such a motion as a lion might make at its prey. + +"You wouldn't--wouldn't save her--you coward!" He ground the words out. + +The priest raised his palm against the other's violence. "Hush! . . . +She drew away, saying that God and man had deserted her. . . . We had +breakfast, the chief and I. Afterwards, when the chief had eaten much +and was in good humour, I asked him where he had got the woman. He said +that he had found her on the plains she had lost her way. I told him +then that I wanted to buy her. He said to me, 'What does a priest want +of a woman?' I said that I wished to give her back to her husband. He +said that he had found her, and she was his, and that he would marry her +when they reached the great camp of the tribe. I was patient. It would +not do to make him angry. I wrote down on a piece of bark the things +that I would give him for her: an order on the Company at Fort o' Sin for +shot, blankets, and beads. He said no." + +The priest paused. Bagot's face was all swimming with sweat, his body +was rigid, but the veins of his neck knotted and twisted. + +"For the love of God, go on!" he said hoarsely. "Yes, 'for the love of +God.' I have no money, I am poor, but the Company will always honour my +orders, for I pay sometimes, by the help of Christ. Bien, I added some +things to the list: a saddle, a rifle, and some flannel. But no, he +would not. Once more I put many things down. It was a big bill-- +it would keep me poor for five years.--To save your wife, John Bagot, +you who drove her from your door, blaspheming, and railing at such as I. +. . . I offered the things, and told him that was all that I could +give. After a little he shook his head, and said that he must have the +woman for his wife. I did not know what to add. I said--'She is white, +and the white people will never rest till they have killed you all, if +you do this thing. The Company will track you down.' Then he said, 'The +whites must catch me and fight me before they kill me.' . . . What was +there to do?" + +Bagot came near to the priest, bending over him savagely. + +"You let her stay with them--you with hands like a man!" + +"Hush!" was the calm, reproving answer. "I was one man, they were +twenty." + +"Where was your God to help you, then?" + +"Her God and mine was with me." + +Bagot's eyes blazed. "Why didn't you offer rum--rum? They'd have done +it for that--one--five--ten kegs of rum!" + +He swayed to and fro in his excitement, yet their voices hardly rose +above a hoarse whisper all the time. "You forget," answered the priest, +"that it is against the law, and that as a priest of my order, I am vowed +to give no rum to an Indian." + +"A vow? A vow? Name of God! what is a vow beside a woman--my wife?" + +His misery and his rage were pitiful to see. + +"Perjure my soul? Offer rum? Break my vow in the face of the enemies of +God's Church? What have you done for me that I should do this for you, +John Bagot?" + +"Coward!" was the man's despairing cry, with a sudden threatening +movement. "Christ Himself would have broke a vow to save her." + +The grave, kind eyes of the priest met the other's fierce gaze, and +quieted the wild storm that was about to break. + +"Who am I that I should teach my Master?" he said solemnly. "What would +you give Christ, Bagot, if He had saved her to you?" + +The man shook with grief, and tears rushed from his eyes, so suddenly and +fully had a new emotion passed through him. + +"Give--give?" he cried; "I would give twenty years of my life!" + +The figure of the priest stretched up with a gentle grandeur. Holding +out the iron crucifix, he said: "On your knees and swear it, John Bagot." + +There was something inspiring, commanding, in the voice and manner, and +Bagot, with a new hope rushing through his veins, knelt and repeated his +words. + +The priest turned to the door, and called, "Madame Lucette!" + +The boy, hearing, waked, and sat up in bed suddenly. "Mother! mother!" +he cried, as the door flew open. The mother came to her husband's arms, +laughing and weeping, and an instant afterwards was pouring out her love +and anxiety over her child. + +Father Corraine now faced the man, and with a soft exaltation of voice +and manner, said: + +"John Bagot, in the name of Christ, I demand twenty years of your life-- +of love and obedience of God. I broke my vow, I perjured my soul, I +bought your wife with ten kegs of rum!" + +The tall hunter dropped again to his knees, and caught the priest's hand +to kiss it. + +"No, no--this!" the priest said, and laid his iron crucifix against the +other's lips. + +Dominique's voice came clearly through the room: "Mother, I saw the white +swan fly away through the door when you came in." + +"My dear, my dear," she said, "there was no white swan." But she clasped +the boy to her breast protectingly, and whispered an ave. + +"Peace be to this house," said the voice of the priest. And there was +peace: for the child lived, and the man has loved, and has kept his vow, +even unto this day. + +For the visions of the boy, who can know the divers ways in which God +speaks to the children of men? + + + + + + +AT BAMBER'S BOOM + +His trouble came upon him when he was old. To the hour of its coming he +had been of shrewd and humourous disposition. He had married late in +life, and his wife had died, leaving him one child--a girl. She grew to +womanhood, bringing him daily joy. She was beloved in the settlement; +and there was no one at Bamber's Boom, in the valley of the Madawaska, +but was startled and sorry when it turned out that Dugard, the river- +boss, was married. He floated away down the river, with his rafts and +drives of logs, leaving the girl sick and shamed. They knew she was sick +at heart, because she grew pale and silent; they did not know for some +months how shamed she was. Then it was that Mrs. Lauder, the sister of +the Roman Catholic missionary, Father Halen, being a woman of notable +character and kindness, visited her and begged her to tell all. + +Though the girl--Nora--was a Protestant, Mrs. Lauder did this: but it +brought sore grief to her. At first she could hardly bear to look at +the girl's face, it was so hopeless, so numb to the world: it had the +indifference of despair. Rumour now became hateful fact. When the old +man was told, he gave one great cry, then sat down, his hands pressed +hard between his knees, his body trembling, his eyes staring before him. + +It was Father Halen who told him. He did it as man to man, and not as a +priest, having travelled fifty miles for the purpose. "George Magor," +said he, "it's bad, I know, but bear it--with the help of God. And be +kind to the girl." + +The old man answered nothing. "My friend," the priest continued, "I hope +you'll forgive me for telling you. I thought 'twould be better from me, +than to have it thrown at you in the settlement. We've been friends one +way and another, and my heart aches for you, and my prayers go with you." + +The old man raised his sunken eyes, all their keen humour gone, and spoke +as though each word were dug from his heart. "Say no more, Father +Halen." Then he reached out, caught the priest's hand in his gnarled +fingers, and wrung it. + +The father never spoke a harsh word to the girl. Otherwise he seemed to +harden into stone. When the Protestant missionary came, he would not see +him. The child was born before the river-drivers came along again the +next year with their rafts and logs. There was a feeling abroad that it +would be ill for Dugard if he chanced to camp at Bamber's Boom. The look +of the old man's face was ominous, and he was known to have an iron will. + +Dugard was a handsome man, half French, half Scotch, swarthy and +admirably made. He was proud of his strength, and showily fearless in +danger. For there were dangerous hours to the river life: when, for +instance, a mass of logs became jammed at a rapids, and must be loosened; +or a crib struck into the wrong channel, or, failing to enter a slide +straight, came at a nasty angle to it, its timbers wrenched and tore +apart, and its crew, with their great oars, were plumped into the busy +current. He had been known to stand singly in some perilous spot when +one log, the key to the jam, must be shifted to set free the great +tumbled pile. He did everything with a dash. The handspike was waved +and thrust into the best leverage, the long robust cry, "O-hee-hee-hoi!" +rolled over the waters, there was a devil's jumble of logs, and he played +a desperate game with them, tossing here, leaping there, balancing +elsewhere, till, reaching the smooth rush of logs in the current, he ran +across them to the shore as they spun beneath his feet. + +His gang of river-drivers, with their big drives of logs, came sweeping +down one beautiful day of early summer, red-shifted, shouting, good- +tempered. It was about this time that Pierre came to know Magor. + +It was the old man's duty to keep the booms of several great lumbering +companies, and to watch the logs when the river-drivers were engaged +elsewhere. Occasionally he took a place with the men, helping to make +cribs and rafts. Dugard worked for one lumber company, Magor for others. +Many in the settlement showed Dugard how much he was despised. Some +warned him that Magor had said he would break him into pieces; it seemed +possible that Dugard might have a bad hour with the people of Bamber's +Boom. Dugard, though he swelled and strutted, showed by a furtive eye +and a sinister watchfulness that he felt himself in an atmosphere of +danger. But he spoke of his wickedness lightly as, "A slip--a little +accident, mon ami." + +Pierre said to him one day: "Bien, Dugard, you are a bold man to come +here again. Or is it that you think old men are cowards?" + +Dugard, blustering, laid his hand suddenly upon his case-knife. + +Pierre laughed softly, contemptuously, came over, and throwing out his +perfectly formed but not robust chest in the fashion of Dugard, added: +"Ho, ho, monsieur the butcher, take your time at that. There is too much +blood in your carcass. You have quarrels plenty on your hands without +this. Come, don't be a fool and a scoundrel too." + +Dugard grinned uneasily, and tried to turn the thing off as a joke, and +Pierre, who laughed still a little more, said: "It would be amusing to +see old Magor and Dugard fight. It would be--so equal." There was a +keen edge to Pierre's tones, but Dugard dared not resent it. + +One day Magor and Dugard must meet. The square-timber of the two +companies had got tangled at a certain point, and gangs from both must +set them loose. They were camped some distance from each other. There +was rivalry between them, and it was hinted that if any trouble came from +the meeting of Magor and Dugard the gangs would pay off old scores with +each other. Pierre wished to prevent this. It seemed to him that the +two men should stand alone in the affair. He said as much here and there +to members of both camps, for he was free of both: a tribute to his +genius at poker. + +The girl, Nora, was apprehensive--for her father; she hated the other man +now. Pierre was courteous to her, scrupulous in word and look, and fond +of her child. He had always shown a gentleness to children, which seemed +little compatible with his character; but for this young outlaw in the +world he had something more. He even laboured carefully to turn the +girl's father in its favour; but as yet to little purpose. He was +thought ful of the girl too. He only went to the house when he knew her +father was present, or when she was away. Once while he was there, +Father Halen and his sister, Mrs. Lauder, came. They found Pierre with +the child, rocking the cradle, and humming as he did so an old song of +the coureurs de bois: + + "Out of the hills comes a little white deer, + Poor little vaurien, o, ci, ci! + Come to my home, to my home down here, + Sister and brother and child o' me + Poor little, poor little vaurien!" + +Pierre was alone, save for the old woman who had cared for the home since +Nora's trouble came. The priest was anxious lest any harm should come +from Dugard's presence at Bamber's Boom. He knew Pierre's doubtful +reputation, but still he knew he could speak freely and would be answered +honestly. "What will happen?" he abruptly asked. + +"What neither you nor I should try to prevent, m'sieu'," was Pierre's +reply. + +"Magor will do the man injury?" + +"What would you have? Put the matter on your own hearthstone, eh? . . . +Pardon, if I say these things bluntly." Pierre still lightly rocked the +cradle with one foot. + +"But vengeance is in God's hands." + +"M'sieu'," said the half-breed, "vengeance also is man's, else why did +we ten men from Fort Cypress track down the Indians who murdered your +brother, the good priest, and kill them one by one?" + +Father Halen caught his sister as she swayed, and helped her to a chair, +then turned a sad face on Pierre. "Were you--were you one of that ten?" +he asked, overcome; and he held out his hand. + +The two river-driving camps joined at Mud Cat Point, where was the crush +of great timber. The two men did not at first come face to face, but it +was noticed by Pierre, who smoked on the bank while the others worked, +that the old man watched his enemy closely. The work of undoing the +great twist of logs was exciting, and they fell on each other with a +great sound as they were pried off, and went sliding, grinding, into the +water. At one spot they were piled together, massive and high. These +were left to the last. + +It was here that the two met. Old Magor's face was quiet, if a little +haggard; and his eyes looked out from under his shaggy brows piercingly. +Dugard's manner was swaggering, and he swore horribly at his gang. +Presently he stood at a point alone, working at an obstinate log. He was +at the foot of an incline of timber, and he was not aware that Magor had +suddenly appeared at the top of that incline. He heard his name called +out sharply. Swinging round, he saw Magor thrusting a handspike under a +huge timber, hanging at the top of the incline. He was standing in a +hollow, a kind of trench. He was shaken with fear, for he saw the old +man's design. He gave a cry and made as if to jump out of the way, but +with a laugh Magor threw his whole weight on the handspike, the great +timber slid swiftly down and crushed Dugard from his thighs to his feet, +breaking his legs terribly. The old man called down at him: "A slip--a +little accident, mon ami!" Then, shouldering his handspike, he made his +way through the silent gangs to the shore, and so on homewards. + +Magor had done what he wished. Dugard would be a cripple for life; his +beauty was all spoiled and broken: there was much to do to save his life. + + + +II + +Nora also about this time took to her bed with fever. Again and again +Pierre rode thirty miles and back to get ice for her head. All were kind +to her now. The vengeance upon Dugard seemed to have wiped out much of +her shame in the eyes of Bamber's Boom. Such is the way of the world. +He that has the last blow is in the eye of advantage. When Nora began to +recover, the child fell ill also. In the sickness of the child the old +man had a great temptation--far greater than that concerning Dugard. As +the mother grew better the child became much worse. One night the doctor +came, driving over from another settlement, and said that if the child +got sleep till morning it would probably live, for the crisis had come. +He left an opiate to procure the sleep, the same that had been given to +the mother. If it did not sleep, it would die. Pierre was present at +this time. + +All through the child's illness the old man's mind had been tossed to and +fro. If the child died, the living stigma would be gone; there would be +no reminder of his daughter's shame in the eyes of the world. They could +go away from Bamber's Boom, and begin life again somewhere. But, then, +there was the child itself which had crept into his heart,--he knew not +how, and would not be driven out. He had never, till it was taken ill, +even touched it, nor spoken to it. To destroy its life!--Well, would it +not be better for the child to go out of all possible shame, into peace, +the peace of the grave? + +This night he sat down beside the cradle, holding the bottle of medicine +and a spoon in his hand. The hot, painful face of the child fascinated +him. He looked from it to the bottle, and back, then again to the +bottle. He started, and the sweat stood out on his forehead. For though +the doctor had told him in words the proper dose, he had by mistake +written on the label the same dose as for the mother! Here was the +responsibility shifted in any case. More than once the old man uncorked +the bottle, and once he dropped out the opiate in the spoon steadily; but +the child opened its suffering eyes at him, its little wasted hand +wandered over the coverlet, and he could not do it just then. But again +the passion for its destruction came on him, because he heard his +daughter moaning in the other room. He said to himself that she would be +happier when it was gone. But as he stooped over the cradle, no longer +hesitating, the door softly opened, and Pierre entered. The old man +shuddered, and drew back from the cradle. Pierre saw the look of guilt +in the old man's face, and his instinct told him what was happening. He +took the bottle from the trembling hand, and looked at the label. + +"What is the proper dose?" he asked, seeing that a mistake had been made +by the doctor. + +In a hoarse whisper Magor told him. "It may be too late," Pierre added. +He knelt down, with light fingers opened the child's mouth, and poured +the medicine in slowly. The old man stood for a time rigid, looking at +them both. Then he came round to the other side of the cradle, and +seated himself beside it, his eyes fixed on the child's face. For a long +time they sat there. At last the old man said: "Will he die, Pierre?" + +"I am afraid so," answered Pierre painfully. "But we shall see." Then +early teaching came to him, never to be entirely obliterated, and he +added: "Has the child been baptised?" + +The old man shook his head. "'Will you do it?" asked Pierre +hesitatingly. + +"I can't--I can't," was the reply. + +Pierre smiled a little ironically, as if at himself, got some water in a +cup, came over, and said: "Remember, I'm a Papist!" + +A motion of the hand answered him. + +He dipped his fingers in the water, and dropped it ever so lightly on the +child's forehead. + +"George Magor,"--it was the old man's name,--"I baptise thee in the name +of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen." Then he +drew the sign of the cross on the infant's forehead. + +Sitting down, he watched beside the child. After a little he heard a +long choking sigh. Looking up, he saw tears slowly dropping from Magor's +eyes. + +And to this day the child and the mother of the child are dear to the old +man's heart. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Bad turns good sometimes, when you know the how +How can you judge the facts if you don't know the feeling? +Put the matter on your own hearthstone + + + + + + +A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + +BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE" +AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 3. + + +THE BRIDGE HOUSE +THE EPAULETTES +THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER +THE FINDING OF FINGALL +THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE + + + + +THE BRIDGE HOUSE + +It stood on a wide wall between two small bridges. These were approaches +to the big covered bridge spanning the main channel of the Madawaska +River, and when swelled by the spring thaws and rains, the two flanking +channels divided at the foundations of the house, and rustled away +through the narrow paths of the small bridges to the rapids. You could +stand at any window in the House and watch the ugly, rushing current, +gorged with logs, come battering at the wall, jostle between the piers, +and race on to the rocks and the dam and the slide beyond. You stepped +from the front door upon the wall, which was a road between the bridges, +and from the back door into the river itself. + +The House had once been a tavern. It looked a wayfarer, like its patrons +the river-drivers, with whom it was most popular. You felt that it had +no part in the career of the village on either side, but was like a rock +in a channel, at which a swimmer caught or a vagrant fish loitered. + +Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in the springtime or early +summer, throngs of river-drivers and their bosses sauntered at its doors, +or hung over the railing of the wall, as they talked and smoked. + +The glory of the Bridge House suddenly declined. That was because +Finley, the owner, a rich man, came to hate the place--his brother's +blood stained the barroom floor. He would have destroyed the house but +that John Rupert, the beggared gentleman came to him, and wished to rent +it for a dwelling. + +Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably poor for many years, but he +had a breeding and a manner superior to anyone at Bamber's Boom. He was +too old for a labourer, he had no art or craftsmanship; his little money +was gone in foolish speculations, and he was dependent on his +granddaughter's slight earnings from music teaching and needlework. But +he rented an acre of ground from Finley, and grew vegetables; he gathered +driftwood from the river for his winter fire, and made up the accounts of +the storekeeper occasionally. Yet it was merely keeping off starvation. +He was not popular. He had no tongue for the meaningless village talk. +People held him in a kind of awe, and yet they felt a mean satisfaction +when they saw him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on the shore to be +dragged away--the last resort of the poor, for which they blush. + +When Mr. Rupert asked for the House, Finley knew the chances were he +would not get the rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old man, he +gave it to him at a low rate. He closed up the bar-room, however, and it +was never opened afterwards. + +So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his granddaughter, came to live +there. Judith was a blithe, lissome creature, who had never known +comfort or riches: they were taken from her grandfather before she was +born, and her father and mother both died when she was a little child. +But she had been taught by her grandmother, when she lived, and by her +grandfather, and she had felt the graces of refined life. Withal, she +had a singular sympathy for the rude, strong life of the river. She was +glad when they came to live at the Bridge House, and shamed too: glad +because they could live apart from the other villagers; shamed because it +exposed her to the curiosity of those who visited the House, thinking it +was still a tavern. But that was only for a time. + +One night Jules Brydon, the young river-boss, camped with his men at +Bamber's Boom. He was of parents Scotch and French, and the amalgamation +of races in him made a striking product. He was cool and indomitable, +yet hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch him at the head of his +men, breaking up a jam of logs, and it was a delight to hear him of an +evening as he sang: + + "Have you heard the cry of the Long Lachine, + When happy is the sun in the morning? + The rapids long and the banks of green, + As we ride away in the morning, + On the froth of the Long Lachine?" + +One day, soon after they came, the dams and booms were opened above, +and forests of logs came riding down to Bamber's Boom. The current was +strong, and the logs came on swiftly. As Brydon's gang worked, they saw +a man out upon a small raft of driftwood, which had been suddenly caught +in the drive of logs, and was carried out towards the middle channel. +The river-drivers laughed, for they failed to see that the man was old, +and that he could not run across the rolling logs to the shore. The old +man, evidently hopeless, laid down his pike-pole, folded his hands, and +drifted with the logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They began +to understand. + +Brydon saw a woman standing at a window of the House waving her arms, +and there floated up the river the words, "Father! father!" He caught +up a pikepole, and ran over that spinning floor of logs to the raft. The +old man's face was white, but there was no fear in his eyes. + +"I cannot run the logs," he said at once; "I never did; I am too old, and +I slip. It's no use. It is my granddaughter at that window. Tell her +that I'll think of her to the last. . . . Good-bye!" + +Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man's voice was husky; he could not +cry out, but he waved his hand to the girl. + +"Oh, save him!" came from her faintly. + +Brydon's eyes were now on the covered bridge. Their raft was in the +channel, coming straight between two piers. He measured his chances. He +knew if he slipped, doing what he intended, that both might be drowned, +and certainly Mr. Rupert; for the logs were close, and to drop among them +was a bad business. If they once closed over there was an end of +everything. + +"Keep quite still," he said, "and when I throw you catch." + +He took the slight figure in his arms, sprang out upon the slippery logs, +and ran. A cheer went up from the men on the shore, and the people who +were gathering on the bridges, too late to be of service. Besides, the +bridge was closed, and there was only a small opening at the piers. For +one of these piers Brydon was making. He ran hard. Once he slipped and +nearly fell, but recovered. Then a floating tree suddenly lunged up and +struck him, so that he dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, and +strained for the pier. He was within a few feet of it as they came to +the bridge. The people gave a cry of fear, for they saw that there was +no chance of both making it; because, too, at the critical moment a space +of clear water showed near the pier. But Brydon raised John Rupert up, +balanced himself, and tossed him at the pier, where two river-drivers +stood stretching out their arms. An instant afterwards the old man was +with his granddaughter. But Brydon slipped and fell; the roots of a tree +bore him down, and he was gone beneath the logs! + +There was a cry of horror from the watchers, then all was still. But +below the bridge they saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and then +another arm crowding them apart. Now a head and shoulders appeared. +Luckily the piece of timber which Brydon grasped was square, and did not +roll. In a moment he was standing on it. There was a wild shout of +encouragement. He turned his battered, blood-stained face to the bridge +for an instant, and, with a wave of the hand and a sharp look towards the +rapids below, once more sprang out. It was a brave sight, for the logs +were in a narrower channel and more riotous. He rubbed the blood out of +his eyes that he might see his way. The rolling forest gave him no +quarter, but he came on, rocking with weakness, to within a few rods of +the shore. Then a half-dozen of his men ran out on the logs,--they were +packed closely here,--caught him up, and brought him to dry ground. + +They took him to the Bridge House. He was hurt more than he or they +thought. The old man and the girl met them at the door. Judith gave a +little cry when she saw the blood and Brydon's bruised face. He lifted +his head as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their looks meeting, +he took his hat off. Her face flushed; she dropped her eyes. Her +grandfather seized Brydon's big hand, and said some trembling words of +thanks. The girl stepped inside, made a bed for him upon the sofa, and +got him something to drink. She was very cool; she immediately asked +Pierre to go for the young doctor who had lately come to the place, and +made ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon's blood-stained face +and hands, and then gave him some brandy. His comrades standing round +watched her admiringly, she was so deft and delicate. Brydon, as if to +be nursed and cared for was not manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly +to a sitting posture, saying, "Pshaw! I'm all right!" But he turned +sick immediately, and Judith's arms caught his head and shoulders as he +fell back. His face turned, and was pillowed on her bosom. At this she +blushed, but a look of singular dignity came into her face. Those +standing by were struck with a kind of awe; they were used mostly to the +daughters of habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sensitive face spoke +a wonderful language: a divine gratitude and thankfulness; and her eyes +had a clear moisture which did not dim them. The situation was trying to +the river-drivers--it was too refined; and they breathed more freely when +they got outside and left the girl, her grandfather, Pierre, and the +young doctor alone with the injured man. + +That was how the thing began. Pierre saw the conclusion of events from +the start. The young doctor did not. From the hour when he bound up +Brydon's head, Judith's fingers aiding him, he felt a spring in his blood +new to him. When he came to know exactly what it meant, and acted, it +was too late. He was much surprised that his advances were gently +repulsed. He pressed them hard: that was a mistake. He had an idea, +not uncommon in such cases, that he was conferring an honour. But he was +very young. A gold medal in anatomy is likely to turn a lad's head at +the start. He falls into the error that the ability to demonstrate the +medulla oblongata should likewise suffice to convince the heart of a +maid. Pierre enjoyed the situation; he knew life all round; he had boxed +the compass of experience. + +He believed in Judith. The old man interested him: he was a wreck out of +an unfamiliar life. + +"Well, you see," Pierre said to Brydon one day, as they sat on the high +cross-beams of the little bridge, "you can't kill it in a man--what he +was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood over there. Broken down, +eh? Yes, but then there is something--a manner, an eye. He piles the +wood like champagne bottles. On the raft, you remember, he took off his +hat to death. That's different altogether from us." + +He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and saw a troubled look. + +"Yes," Brydon said, "he is different; and so is she." + +"She is a lady," Pierre said, with slow emphasis. "She couldn't hide it +if she tried. She plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico. Made +for this?"--he waved his hand towards the Bridge House. "No, no! made +for--" + +He paused, smiled enigmatically, and dropped a bit of wood on the swift +current. + +Brydon frowned, then said: "Well, made for what, Pierre?" + +Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, towards a pretty cottage on the +hillside. "Made for homes like that, not this," he said, and he nodded +first towards the hillside, then to the Bridge House. (The cottage +belonged to the young doctor.) A growl like an animal's came from Brydon, +and he clinched the other's shoulder. Pierre glanced at the hand, then +at Brydon's face, and said sharply: "Take it away." + +The hand dropped; but Brydon's face was hot, and his eyes were hard. + +Pierre continued: "But then women are strange. What you expect they will +not--no. Riches?--it is nothing; houses like that on the hill, nothing. +They have whims. The hut is as good as the house, with the kitchen in +the open where the river welts and washes, and a man--the great man of +the world to them--to play the little game of life with. . . . Pshaw! +you are idle: move; you are thick in the head: think hard; you like the +girl: speak." + +As he said this, there showed beneath them the front timbers of a small +crib of logs with a crew of two men, making for the rapids and the slide +below. Here was an adventure, for running the rapids with so slight a +craft and small a crew was smart work. Pierre, measuring the distance, +and with a "Look out, below!" swiftly let himself down by his arms as +far as he could, and then dropped to the timbers, as lightly as if it +were a matter of two feet instead of twelve. He waved a hand to Brydon, +and the crib shot on. Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran into +the teeth of the rapids, the long oars of the three men rising and +falling to the monotonous cry. The sun set out the men and the craft +against the tall dark walls of the river in strong relief, and Brydon was +carried away from what Pierre had been saying. He had a solid pleasure +in watching, and he sat up with a call of delight when he saw the crib +drive at the slide. Just glancing the edge, she shot through safely. +His face blazed. + +"A pretty sight!" said a voice behind him. + +Without a word he swung round, and dropped, more heavily than Pierre, +beside Judith. + +"It gets into our bones," he said. "Of course, though it ain't the same +to you," he added, looking down at her over his shoulder. "You don't +care for things so rough, mebbe?" + +"I love the river," she said quietly. + +"We're a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We have to be. It's a rowdy +business." + +"I never noticed that," she replied, gravely smiling. "When I was small +I used to go to the river-drivers' camps with my brother, and they were +always kind to us. They used to sing and play the fiddle, and joke; but +I didn't think then that they were rowdy, and I don't now. They were +never rough with us." + +"No one'd ever be rough with you," was the reply. "Oh yes," she said +suddenly, and turned her head away. She was thinking of what the young +doctor had said to her that morning; how like a foolish boy he had acted: +upbraiding her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things, as young +egoists always do. In years she was younger than he, but in wisdom much +older: in all things more wise and just. He had not struck her, but with +his reckless tongue he had cut her to the heart. "Oh yes," she repeated, +and her eyes ran up to his face and over his great stalwart body; and +then she leaned over the railing and looked into the water. + +"I'd break the man into pieces that was rough with you," he said between +his teeth. + +"Would you?" she asked in a whisper. Then, not giving him a chance to +reply, "We are very poor, you know, and some people are rough with the +poor--and proud. I remember," she went on, simply, dreamily, and as if +talking to herself, "the day when we first came to the Bridge House. I +sat down on a box and looked at the furniture--it was so little--and +cried. Coming here seemed the last of what grandfather used to be. I +couldn't help it. He sat down too, and didn't say anything. He was very +pale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he looked at me. Then I got angry +with myself, and sprang up and went to work--and we get along pretty +well." + +She paused and sighed; then, after a minute: "I love the river. I don't +believe I could be happy away from it. I should like to live on it, and +die on it, and be buried in it." + +His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked so frail and dainty that +his voice, to himself, sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along the +railing to hers, and covered it tenderly--for so big a hand. She drew +her fingers away, but not very quickly. "Don't!" she said, "and--and +someone is coming!" + +There were footsteps behind them. It was her grandfather, carrying +a board fished from the river. He grasped the situation, and stood +speechless with wonder. He had never thought of this. He was a +gentleman, in spite of all, and this man was a common river-boss. +Presently he drew himself up with an air. The heavy board was still in +his arms. Brydon came over and took the board, looking him squarely in +the eyes. + +"Mr. Rupert," he said, "I want to ask something." The old man nodded. + +"I helped you out of a bad scrape on the river?" Again the old man +nodded. + +"Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that I'm going to ask you to draw +no more driftwood from the Madawaska--not a stick, now or ever." + +"It is the only way we can keep from freezing in winter." Mr. Rupert +scarcely knew what he said. Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away, +then answered: "I'll keep you from freezing, if you'll let me, you--and +Judith." + +"Oh, please let us go into the house," Judith said hastily. + +She saw the young doctor driving towards them out of the covered bridge! + +When Brydon went to join his men far down the river he left a wife behind +him at the Bridge House, where she and her grandfather were to stay until +the next summer. Then there would be a journey from Bamber's Boom to a +new home. + +In the late autumn he came, before he went away to the shanties in the +backwoods, and again in the winter just before the babe was born. Then +he went far up the river to Rice Lake and beyond, to bring down the +drives of logs for his Company. June came, and then there was a sudden +sorrow at the Bridge House. How great it was, Pierre's words as he stood +at the door one evening will testify. He said to the young doctor: "Save +the child, and you shall have back the I O U on your house." Which was +also evidence that the young doctor had fallen into the habit of +gambling. + +The young doctor looked hard at him. He had a selfish nature. "You can +only do what you can do," he said. + +Pierre's eyes were sinister. "If you do not save it, one would guess +why." + +The other started, flushed, was silent, and then said: "You think I'm a +coward. We shall see. There is a way, but it may fail." + +And though he sucked the diphtheria poison from the child's throat, it +died the next night. + +Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company had won was handed back with +such good advice as only a worldwise adventurer can give. + +Of the child's death its father did not know. They were not certain +where he was. But when the mother took to her bed again, the young +doctor said it was best that Brydon should come. Pierre had time and +inclination to go for him. But before he went he was taken to Judith's +bedside. Pierre had seen life and death in many forms, but never +anything quite like this: a delicate creature floating away upon a summer +current travelling in those valleys which are neither of this life nor +of that; but where you hear the echoes of both, and are visited by +solicitous spirits. There was no pain in her face--she heard a little, +familiar voice from high and pleasant hills, and she knew, so wise are +the dying, that her husband was travelling after her, and that they would +be all together soon. But she did not speak of that. For the knowledge +born of such a time is locked up in the soul. + +Pierre was awe-stricken. Unconsciously he crossed himself. + +"Tell him to come quickly," she said, "if you find him,"--her fingers +played with the coverlet,--"for I wish to comfort him. . . . Someone +said that you were bad, Pierre. I do not believe it. You were sorry +when my baby went away. I am--going away--too. But do not tell him +that. Tell him I cannot walk about. I want him to carry me--to carry +me. Will you?" Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping along the +coverlet to him; but it was only instinct that guided him, for he could +not see. He started on his journey with his hat pulled down over his +eyes. + +One evening when the river was very high and it was said that Brydon's +drives of logs would soon be down, a strange thing happened at the Bridge +House. + +The young doctor had gone, whispering to Mr. Rupert that he would come +back later. He went out on tiptoe, as from the presence of an angel. +His selfishness had dropped away from him. The evening wore on, and in +the little back room a woman's voice said: + +"Is it morning yet, father?" + +"It is still day. The sun has not set, my child." + +"I thought it had gone, it seemed so dark." + +"You have been asleep, Judith. You have come out of the dark." + +"No, I have come out into the darkness--into the world." + +"You will see better when you are quite awake." + +"I wish I could see the river, father. Will you go and look?" + +Then there was a silence. "Well?" she asked. + +"It is beautiful," he said, "and the sun is still bright." + +"You see as far as Indian Island?" + +"I can see the white comb of the reef beyond it, my dear." + +"And no one--is coming?" + +"There are men making for the shore, and the fires are burning, but no +one is--coming this way. . . . He would come by the road, perhaps." + +"Oh no, by the river. Pierre has not found him. Can you see the Eddy?" + +"Yes. It is all quiet there; nothing but the logs tossing round it." + +"We used to sit there--he and I--by the big cedar tree. Everything was +so cool and sweet. There was only the sound of the force-pump and the +swallowing of the Eddy. They say that a woman was drowned there, and +that you can see her face in the water, if you happen there at sunrise, +weeping and smiling also: a picture in the water. . . . Do you think +it true, father?" + +"Life is so strange, and who knows what is not life, my child?" + +"When baby was dying I held it over the water beneath that window, where +the sunshine falls in the evening; and it looked down once before its +spirit passed like a breath over my face. Maybe, its look will stay, for +him to see when he comes. It was just below where you stand.... Father, +can you see its face?" "No, Judith; nothing but the water and the +sunshine." + +"Dear, carry me to the window." + +When this was done she suddenly leaned forward with shining eyes and +anxious fingers. "My baby! My baby!" she said. + +She looked up the river, but her eyes were fading, she could not see far. +"It is all a grey light," she said, "I cannot see well." Yet she smiled. +"Lay me down again, father," she whispered. + +After a little she sank into a slumber. All at once she started up. +"The river, the beautiful river!" she cried out gently. Then, at the +last, "Oh, my dear, my dear!" + +And so she came out of the valley into the high hills. Later he was left +alone with his dead. The young doctor and others had come and gone. He +would watch till morning. He sat long beside her, numb to the world. At +last he started, for he heard a low clear call behind the House. He went +out quickly to the little platform, and saw through the dusk a man +drawing himself up. It was Brydon. He caught the old man's shoulders +convulsively. "How is she?" he asked. "Come in, my son," was the low +reply. The old man saw a grief greater than his own. He led the husband +to the room where the wife lay beautiful and still. "She is better, as +you see," he said bravely. + +The hours went, and the two sat near the body, one on either side. They +knew not what was going on in the world. + +As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor sat silent in that cottage +on the hillside. They were roused at last. There came up to Pierre's +keen ears the sound of the river. + +"Let us go out," he said; "the river is flooding. You can hear the +logs." + +They came out and watched. The river went swishing, swilling past, and +the dull boom of the logs as they struck the piers of the bridge or some +building on the shore came rolling to them. + +"The dams and booms have burst!" Pierre said. He pointed to the camps +far up the river. By the light of the camp-fires there appeared a wide +weltering flood of logs and debris. Pierre's eyes shifted to the Bridge +House. In one room was a light. He stepped out and down, and the other +followed. They had almost reached the shore, when Pierre cried out +sharply: "What's that?" + +He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing down upon the Bridge House. It +was a big shed that had been carried away, and, jammed between timbers, +had not broken up. There was no time for warning. It came on swiftly, +heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grinding sound, and then they +saw the light of that one room move on, waving a little to and fro-on to +the rapids, the cohorts of logs crowding hard after. + +Where the light was two men had started to their feet when the crash +came. They felt the House move. "Run-save yourself!" cried the old man +quietly. "We are lost!" + +The floor rocked. + +"Go," he said again. "I will stay with her." + +"She is mine," Brydon said; and he took her in his arms. "I will not +go." + +They could hear the rapids below. The old man steadied himself in the +deep water on the floor, and caught out yearningly at the cold hands. + +"Come close, come close," said Brydon. "Closer; put your arms round +her." + +The old man did so. They were locked in each other's arms--dead and +living. + +The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of joy: "We therefore commit her +body to the deep--!" + +The three were never found. + + + + + + +THE EPAULETTES + +Old Athabasca, chief of the Little Crees, sat at the door of his lodge, +staring down into the valley where Fort Pentecost lay, and Mitawawa his +daughter sat near him, fretfully pulling at the fringe of her fine +buckskin jacket. She had reason to be troubled. Fyles the trader had +put a great indignity upon Athabasca. A factor of twenty years before, +in recognition of the chief's merits and in reward of his services, had +presented him with a pair of epaulettes, left in the Fort by some officer +in Her Majesty's service. A good, solid, honest pair of epaulettes, well +fitted to stand the wear and tear of those high feasts and functions at +which the chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders. They were the +admiration of his own tribe, the wonder of others, the envy of many +chiefs. It was said that Athabasca wore them creditably, and was no more +immobile and grand-mannered than became a chief thus honoured above his +kind. + +But the years went, and there came a man to Fort Pentecost who knew not +Athabasca. He was young, and tall and strong, had a hot temper, knew +naught of human nature, was possessed by a pride more masterful than his +wisdom, and a courage stronger than his tact. He was ever for high- +handedness, brooked no interference, and treated the Indians more as +Company's serfs than as Company's friends and allies. Also, he had an +eye for Mitawawa, and found favour in return, though to what depth it +took a long time to show. The girl sat high in the minds and desires of +the young braves, for she had beauty of a heathen kind, a deft and dainty +finger for embroidered buckskin, a particular fortune with a bow and +arrow, and the fleetest foot. There were mutterings because Fyles the +white man came to sit often in Athabasca's lodge. He knew of this, but +heeded not at all. At last Konto, a young brave who very accurately +guessed at Fyles' intentions, stopped him one day on the Grey Horse +Trail, and in a soft, indolent voice begged him to prove his regard in +a fight without weapons, to the death, the survivor to give the other +burial where he fell. Fyles was neither fool nor coward. It would have +been foolish to run the risk of leaving Fort and people masterless for an +Indian's whim; it would have been cowardly to do nothing. So he whipped +out a revolver, and bade his rival march before him to the Fort; which +Konto very calmly did, begging the favour of a bit of tobacco as he went. + +Fyles demanded of Athabasca that he should sit in judgment, and should at +least banish Konto from his tribe, hinting the while that he might have +to put a bullet into Konto's refractory head if the thing were not done. +He said large things in the name of the H.B.C., and was surprised +that Athabasca let them pass unmoved. But that chief, after long +consideration, during which he drank Company's coffee and ate Company's +pemmican, declared that he could do nothing: for Konto had made a fine +offer, and a grand chance of a great fight had been missed. This was in +the presence of several petty officers and Indians and woodsmen at the +Fort. Fyles had vanity and a nasty temper. He swore a little, and with +words of bluster went over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief's +shoulders as a punishment, a mark of degradation. The chief said +nothing. He got up, and reached out his hands as if to ask them back; +and when Fyles refused, he went away, drawing his blanket high over his +shoulders. It was wont before to lie loosely about him, to show his +badges of captaincy and alliance. + +This was about the time that the Indians were making ready for the +buffalo, and when their chief took to his lodge, and refused to leave it, +they came to ask him why. And they were told. They were for making +trouble, but the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he would settle +it in his own way. He would not go to the hunt. Konto, he said, should +take his place; and when his braves came back there should be great +feasting, for then the matter would be ended. + +Half the course of the moon and more, and Athabasca came out of his +lodge--the first time in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace. +He and his daughter sat silent and watchful at the door. There had been +no word between Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mitawawa and Fyles. +The Fort was well-nigh tenantless, for the half-breeds also had gone +after buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half-breed cook +were left. + +Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience: she had held her peace so long +that even her slow Indian nature could endure no more. "What will my +father Athabasca do?" she asked. "With idleness the flesh grows soft, +and the iron melts from the arm." + +"But when the thoughts are stone, the body is as that of the Mighty Men +of the Kimash Hills. When the bow is long drawn, beware the arrow." + +"It is no answer," she said: "what will my father do?" + +"They were of gold," he answered, "that never grew rusty. My people were +full of wonder when they stood before me, and the tribes had envy as they +passed. It is a hundred moons and one red midsummer moon since the Great +Company put them on my shoulders. They were light to carry, but it was +as if I bore an army. No other chief was like me. That is all over. +When the tribes pass they will laugh, and my people will scorn me if +I do not come out to meet them with the yokes of gold." + +"But what will my father do?" she persisted. + +"I have had many thoughts, and at night I have called on the Spirits who +rule. From the top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft drum, +and called, and sung the hymn which wakes the sleeping Spirits: and I +know the way." + +"What is the way?" Her eyes filled with a kind of fear or trouble, +and many times they shifted from the Fort to her father, and back again. +The chief was silent. Then anger leapt into her face. + +"Why does my father fear to speak to his child?" she said. "I will +speak plain. I love the man: but I love my father also." + +She stood up, and drew her blanket about her, one hand clasped proudly on +her breast. "I cannot remember my mother; but I remember when I first +looked down from my hammock in the pine tree, and saw my father sitting +by the fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker, for the pines +made great shadows. I cried out, and he came and took me down, and laid +me between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat from the pot. He +talked much to me, and his voice was finer than any other. There is no +one like my father--Konto is nothing: but the voice of the white man, +Fyles, had golden words that our braves do not know, and I listened. +Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, because he was a great man of the +Company, would not fight, and drove him like a dog. Then he made my +father as a worm in the eyes of the world. I would give my life for +Fyles the trader, but I would give more than my life to wipe out my +father's shame, and to show that Konto of the Little Crees is no dog. +I have been carried by the hands of the old men of my people, I have +ridden the horses of the young men: their shame is my shame." + +The eyes of the chief had never lifted from the Fort: nor from his look +could you have told that he heard his daughter's words. For a moment he +was silent, then a deep fire came into his eyes, and his wide heavy brows +drew up so that the frown of anger was gone. At last, as she waited, he +arose, put out a hand and touched her forehead. + +"Mitawawa has spoken well," he said. "There will be an end. The yokes +of gold are mine: an honour given cannot be taken away. He has stolen; +he is a thief. He would not fight Konto: but I am a chief and he shall +fight me. I am as great as many men--I have carried the golden yokes: we +will fight for them. I thought long, for I was afraid my daughter loved +the man more than her people: but now I will break him in pieces. Has +Mitawawa seen him since the shameful day?" + +"He has come to the lodge, but I would not let him in unless he brought +the epaulettes. He said he would bring them when Konto was punished. +I begged of him as I never begged of my own father, but he was hard as +the ironwood tree. I sent him away. Yet there is no tongue like his in +the world; he is tall and beautiful, and has the face of a spirit." + +From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With a pair of field-glasses he +could follow their actions, could almost read their faces. "There'll be +a lot of sulking about those epaulettes, Mallory," he said at last, +turning to his clerk. "Old Athabasca has a bee in his bonnet." + +"Wouldn't it be just as well to give 'em back, sir?" Mallory had been at +Fort Pentecost a long time, and he understood Athabasca and his Indians. +He was a solid, slow-thinking old fellow, but he had that wisdom of the +north which can turn from dove to serpent and from serpent to lion in the +moment. + +"Give 'em back, Mallory? I'll see him in Jericho first, unless he goes +on his marrow-bones and kicks Konto out of the camp." + +"Very well, sir. But I think we'd better keep an eye open." + +"Eye open, be hanged! If he'd been going to riot he'd have done so +before this. Besides, the girl--!" Mallory looked long and earnestly at +his master, whose forehead was glued to the field-glass. His little eyes +moved as if in debate, his slow jaws opened once or twice. At last he +said: "I'd give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if I was you, unless I +meant to marry her." Fyles suddenly swung round. "Keep your place, +blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals too. One'd think you were a +missionary." Then with a sudden burst of anger: "Damn it all, if my men +don't stand by me against a pack of treacherous Indians, I'd better get +out." + +"Your men will stand by you, sir: no fear. I've served three traders +here, and my record is pretty clean, Mr. Fyles. But I'll say it to your +face, whether you like it or not, that you're not as good a judge of the +Injin as me, or even Duc the cook: and that's straight as I can say it, +Mr. Fyles." + +Fyles paced up and down in anger--not speaking; but presently threw up +the glass, and looked towards Athabasca's lodge. "They're gone," he said +presently; "I'll go and see them to-morrow. The old fool must do what +I want, or there'll be ructions." + +The moon was high over Fort Pentecost when Athabasca entered the silent +yard. The dogs growled, but Indian dogs growl without reason, and no one +heeds them. The old chief stood a moment looking at the windows, upon +which slush-lights were throwing heavy shadows. He went to Fyles' +window: no one was in the room. He went to another: Mallory and Duc were +sitting at a table. Mallory had the epaulettes, looking at them and +fingering the hooks by which Athabasca had fastened them on. Duc was +laughing: he reached over for an epaulette, tossed it up, caught it and +threw it down with a guffaw. Then the door opened, and Athabasca walked +in, seized the epaulettes, and went swiftly out again. Just outside the +door Mallory clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Duc caught at the +epaulettes. + +Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once there was a cold white flash, +and Duc came huddling to Mallory's feet. For a brief instant Mallory and +the Indian fell apart, then Athabasca with a contemptuous fairness tossed +his knife away, and ran in on his man. They closed; strained, swayed, +became a tangled wrenching mass; and then Mallory was lifted high into +the air, and came down with a broken back. + +Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hurried away, breathing hard, and +hugging them to his bare red-stained breast. He had nearly reached the +gate when he heard a cry. He did not turn, but a heavy stone caught him +high in the shoulders, and he fell on his face and lay clutching the +epaulettes in his outstretched hands. + +Fyles' own hands were yet lifted with the effort of throwing, when he +heard the soft rush of footsteps, and someone came swiftly into his +embrace. A pair of arms ran round his shoulders--lips closed with his-- +something ice-cold and hard touched his neck--he saw a bright flash at +his throat. + +In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sitting with wild eyes by her +father's body. She had fastened the epaulettes on its shoulders. +Fyles and his men made a grim triangle of death at the door of the Fort. + + + + + + +THE HOUSE WITH THE BROKEN SHUTTER + + "He stands in the porch of the world-- + (Why should the door be shut?) + The grey wolf waits at his heel, + (Why is the window barred?) + Wild is the trail from the Kimash Hills, + The blight has fallen on bush and tree, + The choking earth has swallowed the streams, + Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol: + (Why should the door be shut?) + The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide-- + (Why is the window barred?)" + +Pierre stopped to listen. The voice singing was clear and soft, yet +strong--a mezzo-soprano without any culture save that of practice and +native taste. It had a singular charm--a sweet, fantastic sincerity. +He stood still and fastened his eyes on the house, a few rods away. It +stood on a knoll perching above Fort Ste. Anne. Years had passed since +Pierre had visited the Fort, and he was now on his way to it again, after +many wanderings. The house had stood here in the old days, and he +remembered it very well, for against it John Marcey, the Company's man, +was shot by Stroke Laforce, of the Riders of the Plains. Looking now, +he saw that the shutter, which had been pulled off to bear the body away, +was hanging there just as he had placed it, with seven of its slats +broken and a dark stain in one corner. Something more of John Marcey +than memory attached to that shutter. His eyes dwelt on it long he +recalled the scene: a night with stars and no moon, a huge bonfire to +light the Indians, at their dance, and Marcey, Laforce, and many others +there, among whom was Lucille, the little daughter of Gyng the Factor. +Marcey and Laforce were only boys then, neither yet twenty-three, and +they were friendly rivals with the sweet little coquette, who gave her +favors with a singular impartiality and justice. Once Marcey had given +her a gold spoon. Laforce responded with a tiny, fretted silver basket. +Laforce was delighted to see her carrying her basket, till she opened it +and showed the spoon inside. There were many mock quarrels, in one of +which Marcey sent her a letter by the Company's courier, covered with +great seals, saying, "I return you the hairpin, the egg-shell, and the +white wolf's tooth. Go to your Laforce, or whatever his ridiculous name +may be." + +In this way the pretty game ran on, the little goldenhaired, golden- +faced, golden-voiced child dancing so gayly in their hearts, but nestling +in them too, after her wilful fashion, until the serious thing came--the +tragedy. + +On the mad night when all ended, she was in the gayest, the most elf-like +spirits. All went well until Marcey dug a hole in the ground, put a +stone in it, and, burying it, said it was Laforce's heart. Then Laforce +pretended to ventriloquise, and mocked Marcey's slight stutter. That was +the beginning of the trouble, and Lucille, like any lady of the world, +troubled at Laforce's unkindness, tried to smooth things over--tried very +gravely. But the playful rivalry of many months changed its composition +suddenly as through some delicate yet powerful chemical action, and the +savage in both men broke out suddenly. Where motives and emotions are +few they are the more vital, their action is the more violent. No one +knew quite what the two young men said to each other, but presently, +while the Indian dance was on, they drew to the side of the house, and +had their duel out in the half-shadows, no one knowing, till the shots +rang on the night, and John Marcey, without a cry, sprang into the air +and fell face upwards, shot through the heart. + +They tried to take the child away, but she would not go; and when they +carried Marcey on the shutter she followed close by, resisting her +father's wishes and commands. And just before they made a prisoner of +Laforce, she said to him very quietly--so like a woman she was--"I will +give you back the basket, and the riding-whip, and the other things, and +I will never forgive you--never--no, never!" + +Stroke Laforce had given himself up, had himself ridden to Winnipeg, +a thousand miles, and told his story. Then the sergeant's stripes had +been stripped from his arm, he had been tried, and on his own statement +had got twelve years' imprisonment. Ten years had passed since then-- +since Marcey was put away in his grave, since Pierre left Fort Ste. +Anne, and he had not seen it or Lucille in all that time. But he knew +that Gyng was dead, and that his widow and her child had gone south or +east somewhere; of Laforce after his sentence he had never heard. + +He stood looking at the house from the shade of the solitary pine-tree +near it, recalling every incident of that fatal night. He had the gift +of looking at a thing in its true proportions, perhaps because he had +little emotion and a strong brain, or perhaps because early in life his +emotions were rationalised. Presently he heard the voice again: + + "He waits at the threshold stone-- + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The eagle broods at his side, + (Why should the blind be drawn?) + Long has he watched, and far has he called + The lonely sentinel of the North: + "Who goes there?" to the wandering soul: + Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, + (Why should the blind be drawn?)" + +Now he recognised the voice. Its golden timbre brought back a young +girl's golden face and golden hair. It was summer, and the window with +the broken shutter was open. He was about to go to it, when a door of +the house opened, and a girl appeared. She was tall, with rich, yellow +hair falling loosely about her head; she had a strong, finely cut chin +and a broad brow, under which a pair of deep blue eyes shone-violet blue, +rare and fine. She stood looking down at the Fort for a few moments, +unaware of Pierre's presence. But presently she saw him leaning against +the tree, and she started as from a spirit. + +"Monsieur!" she said--"Pierre!" and stepped forward again from the +doorway. + +He came to her, and "Ah, p'tite Lucille," he said, "you remember me, eh? +--and yet so many years ago!" + +"But you remember me," she answered, "and I have changed so much!" + +"It is the man who should remember, the woman may forget if she will." + +Pierre did not mean to pay a compliment; he was merely thinking. + +She made a little gesture of deprecation. "I was a child," she said. + +Pierre lifted a shoulder slightly. "What matter? It is sex that I mean. +What difference to me--five, or forty, or ninety? It is all sex. It is +only lovers, the hunters of fire-flies, that think of age--mais oui!" + +She had a way of looking at you before she spoke, as though she were +trying to find what she actually thought. She was one after Pierre's own +heart, and he knew it; but just here he wondered where all that ancient +coquetry was gone, for there were no traces of it left; she was steady of +eye, reposeful, rich in form and face, and yet not occupied with herself. +He had only seen her for a minute or so, yet he was sure that what she +was just now she was always, or nearly so, for the habits of a life leave +their mark, and show through every phase of emotion and incident whether +it be light or grave. + +"I think I understand you," she said. "I think I always did a little, +from the time you stayed with Grah the idiot at Fort o' God, and fought +the Indians when the others left. Only--men said bad things of you, and +my father did not like you, and you spoke so little to me ever. Yet I +mind how you used to sit and watch me, and I also mind when you rode the +man down who stole my pony, and brought them both back." + +Pierre smiled--he was pleased at this. "Ah, my young friend," he said, +"I do not forget that either, for though he had shaved my ear with a +bullet, you would not have him handed over to the Riders of the Plains +--such a tender heart!" + +Her eyes suddenly grew wide. She was childlike in her amazement, indeed, +childlike in all ways, for she was very sincere. It was her great +advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth, she had +not suffered that sickness, social artifice. + +"I never knew," she said, "that he had shot at you--never! You did not +tell that." + +"There is a time for everything--the time for that was not till now." + +"What could I have done then?" + +"You might have left it to me. I am not so pious that I can't be +merciful to the sinner. But this man--this Brickney--was a vile +scoundrel always, and I wanted him locked up. I would have shot him +myself, but I was tired of doing the duty of the law. Yes, yes," he +added, as he saw her smile a little. "It is so. I have love for +justice, even I, Pretty Pierre. Why not justice on myself? Ha! The +law does not its duty. And maybe some day I shall have to do its work on +myself. Some are coaxed out of life, some are kicked out, and some open +the doors quietly for themselves, and go a-hunting Outside." + +"They used to talk as if one ought to fear you," she said, "but"--she +looked him straight in the eyes--"but maybe that's because you've never +hid any badness." + +"It is no matter, anyhow," he answered. "I live in the open, I walk in +the open road, and I stand by what I do to the open law and the gospel. +It is my whim--every man to his own saddle." + +"It is ten years," she said abruptly. + +"Ten years less five days," he answered as sententiously. + +"Come inside," she said quietly, and turned to the door. + +Without a word he turned also, but instead of going direct to the door +came and touched the broken shutter and the dark stain on one corner with +a delicate forefinger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her on +the doorstep, looking intently. + +He spoke as if to himself: "It has not been touched since then--no. +It was hardly big enough for him, so his legs hung over. Ah, yes, ten +years-- Abroad, John Marcey!" Then, as if still musing, he turned to +the girl: "He had no father or mother--no one, of course; so that it +wasn't so bad after all. If you've lived with the tongue in the last +hole of the buckle as you've gone, what matter when you go! C'est egal +--it is all the same." + +Her face had become pale as he spoke, but no muscle stirred; only her +eyes filled with a deeper color, and her hand closed tightly on the door- +jamb. "Come in, Pierre," she said, and entered. He followed her. +"My mother is at the Fort," she added, "but she will be back soon." + +She placed two chairs not far from the open door. They sat, and Pierre +slowly rolled a cigarette and lighted it. + +"How long have you lived here?" he asked presently. + +"It is seven years since we came first," she replied. "After that night +they said the place was haunted, and no one would live in it, but when my +father died my mother and I came for three years. Then we went east, and +again came back, and here we have been." + +"The shutter?" Pierre asked. + +They needed few explanations--their minds were moving with the same +thought. + +"I would not have it changed, and of course no one cared to touch it. +So it has hung there." + +"As I placed it ten years ago," he said. + +They both became silent for a time, and at last he said: "Marcey had no +one,--Sergeant Laforce a mother." + +"It killed his mother," she whispered, looking into the white sunlight. +She was noting how it was flashed from the bark of the birch-trees near +the Fort. + +"His mother died," she added again, quietly. "It killed her--the gaol +for him!" + +"An eye for an eye," he responded. + +"Do you think that evens John Marcey's death?" she sighed. + +"As far as Marcey's concerned," he answered. "Laforce has his own +reckoning besides." + +"It was not a murder," she urged. + +"It was a fair fight," he replied firmly, "and Laforce shot straight." +He was trying to think why she lived here, why the broken shutter still +hung there, why the matter had settled so deeply on her. He remembered +the song she was singing, the legend of the Scarlet Hunter, the fabled +Savior of the North. + + "Heavy of heart is the Red Patrol-- + (Why should the key-hole rust?) + The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home, + (Why should the blind be drawn?)" + +He repeated the words, lingering on them. He loved to come at the truth +of things by allusive, far-off reflections, rather than by the sharp +questioning of the witness-box. He had imagination, refinement in such +things. A light dawned on him as he spoke the words--all became clear. +She sang of the Scarlet Hunter, but she meant someone else! +That was it-- + + "Hungry and cold is the Red Patrol-- + (Why should the door be shut?) + The Scarlet Hunter has come to bide, + (Why is the window barred?)" + +But why did she live here? To get used to a thought, to have it so near +her, that if the man--if Laforce himself came, she would have herself +schooled to endure the shadow and the misery of it all? Ah, that was it! +The little girl, who had seen her big lover killed, who had said she +would never forgive the other, who had sent him back the fretted-silver +basket, the riding-whip, and other things, had kept the criminal in her +mind all these years; had, out of her childish coquetry, grown into-- +what? As a child she had been wise for her years--almost too wise. +What had happened? She had probably felt sorrow for Laforce at first, +and afterwards had shown active sympathy, and at last--no, he felt that +she had not quite forgiven him, that, whatever was, she had not hidden +the criminal in her heart. But why did she sing that song? Her heart +was pleading for him--for the criminal. Had she and her mother gone to +Winnipeg to be near Laforce, to comfort him? Was Laforce free now, and +was she unwilling? It was so strange that she should thus have carried +on her childhood into her womanhood. But he guessed her--she had +imagination. + +"His mother died in my arms in Winnipeg," she said abruptly at last. +"I'm glad I was some comfort to her. You see, it all came through me-- +I was so young and spoiled and silly--John Marcey's death, her death, +and his long years in prison. Even then I knew better than to set the +one against the other. Must a child not be responsible? I was--I am!" + +"And so you punish yourself?" + +"It was terrible for me--even as a child. I said that I could never +forgive, but when his mother died, blessing me, I did. Then there came +something else." + +"You saw him, there amie?" + +"I saw him--so changed, so quiet, so much older--all grey at the temples. +At first I lived here that I might get used to the thought of the thing +--to learn to bear it; and afterwards that I might learn--" She paused, +looking in half-doubt at Pierre. + +"It is safe; I am silent," he said. + +"That I might learn to bear--him," she continued. + +"Is he still--" Pierre paused. + +She spoke up quickly. "Oh no, he has been free two years." + +"Where is he now?" + +"I don't know." She waited for a minute, then said again, "I don't know. +When he was free, he came to me, but I--I could not. He thought, too, +that because he had been in gaol, that I wouldn't--be his wife. He +didn't think enough of himself, he didn't urge anything. And I wasn't +ready--no--no--no--how could I be! I didn't care so much about the gaol, +but he had killed John Marcey. The gaol--what was that to me! There was +no real shame in it unless he had done a mean thing. He had been wicked +--not mean. Killing is awful, but not shameful. Think--the difference-- +if he had been a thief!" + +Pierre nodded. "Then some one should have killed him!" he said. +"Well, after?" + +"After--after--ah, he went away for a year. Then he came back; but no, +I was always thinking of that night I walked behind John Marcey's body +to the Fort. So he went away again, and we came here, and here we have +lived." + +"He has not come here?" + +"No; once from the far north he sent me a letter by an Indian, saying +that he was going with a half-breed to search for a hunting party, +an English gentleman and two men who were lost. The name of one +of the men was Brickney." + +Pierre stopped short in a long whiffing of smoke. "Holy!" he said, +"that thief Brickney again. He would steal the broad road to hell if he +could carry it. He once stole the quarters from a dead man's eyes. Mon +Dieu! to save Brickney's life, the courage to do that--like sticking your +face in the mire and eating!--But, pshaw!--go on, p'tite Lucille." + +"There is no more. I never heard again." + +"How long was that ago?" + +"Nine months or more." + +"Nothing has been heard of any of them?" + +"Nothing at all. The Englishman belonged to the Hudson's Bay Company, +but they have heard nothing down here at Fort Ste. Anne." + +"If he saves the Company's man, that will make up the man he lost for +them, eh--you think that, eh?" Pierre's eyes had a curious ironical +light. + +"I do not care for the Company," she said. "John Marcey's life was his +own." + +"Good!" he added quickly, and his eyes admired her. "That is the thing. +Then, do not forget that Marcey took his life in his hands himself, that +he would have killed Laforce if Laforce hadn't killed him." + +"I know, I know," she said, "but I should have felt the same if John +Marcey had killed Stroke Laforce." + +"It is a pity to throw your life away," he ventured. He said this for a +purpose. He did not think she was throwing it away. + +She was watching a little knot of horsemen coming over a swell of the +prairie far off. She withdrew her eyes and fixed them on Pierre. "Do +you throw your life away if you do what is the only thing you are told +to do?" + +She placed her hand on her heart--that had been her one guide. + +Pierre got to his feet, came over, and touched her on the shoulder. + +"You have the great secret," he said quietly. "The thing may be all +wrong to others, but if it's right to yourself--that's it--mais oui! +If he comes," he added "if he comes back, think of him as well as Marcey. +Marcey is sleeping--what does it matter? If he is awake, he has better +times, for he was a man to make another world sociable. Think of +Laforce, for he has his life to live, and he is a man to make this +world sociable. + + 'The Scarlet Hunter is sick for home-- + (Why should the door be shut?)'" + +Her eyes had been following the group of horsemen on the plains. She +again fixed them on Pierre, and stood up. + +"It is a beautiful legend--that," she said. + +"But?--but?" he asked. + +She would not answer him. "You will come again," she said; "you will-- +help me?" + +"Surely, p'tite Lucille, surely, I will come. But to help--ah, +that would sound funny to the Missionary at the Fort and to others!" + +"You understand life," she said, "and I can speak to you." + +"It's more to you to understand you than to be good, eh?" + +"I guess it's more to any woman," she answered. They both passed out of +the house. She turned towards the broken shutter. Then their eyes met. +A sad little smile hovered at her lips. + +"What is the use?" she said, and her eyes fastened on the horsemen. + +He knew now that she would never shudder again at the sight of it, +or at the remembrance of Marcey's death. + +"But he will come," was the reply to her, and her smile almost settled +and stayed. + +They parted, and as he went down the hill he saw far over, coming up, +a woman in black, who walked as if she carried a great weight. "Every +shot that kills ricochets," he said to himself: + +"His mother dead--her mother like that!" + +He passed into the Fort, renewing acquaintances in the Company's store, +and twenty minutes after he was one to greet the horsemen that Lucille +had seen coming over the hills. They were five, and one had to be helped +from his horse. It was Stroke Laforce, who had been found near dead at +the Metal River by a party of men exploring in the north. + +He had rescued the Englishman and his party, but within a day of the +finding the Englishman died, leaving him his watch, a ring, and a cheque +on the H. B. C. at Winnipeg. He and the two survivors, one of whom was +Brickney, started south. One night Brickney robbed him and made to get +away, and on his seizing the thief he was wounded. Then the other man +came to his help and shot Brickney: after that weeks of wandering, and +at last rescue and Fort Ste. Anne. + +A half-hour after this Pierre left Laforce on the crest of the hill above +the Fort, and did not turn to go down till he had seen the other pass +within the house with the broken shutter. And later he saw a little +bonfire on the hill. The next evening he came to the house again +himself. Lucille rose to meet him. + +"'Why should the door be shut?"' he quoted smiling. + +"The door is open," she answered quickly and with a quiet joy. + +He turned to the motion of her hand, and saw Laforce asleep on a couch. + +Soon afterwards, as he passed from the house, he turned towards the +window. The broken shutter was gone. + +He knew now the meaning of the bonfire the night before. + + + + + + +THE FINDING OF FINGALL + +"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" + +A grey mist was rising from the river, the sun was drinking it +delightedly, the swift blue water showed underneath it, and the top of +Whitefaced Mountain peaked the mist by a hand-length. The river brushed +the banks like rustling silk, and the only other sound, very sharp and +clear in the liquid monotone, was the crack of a woodpecker's beak on a +hickory tree. + +It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in Lonesome Valley. Before night +the deer would bellow reply to the hunters' rifles, and the mountain-goat +call to its unknown gods; but now there was only the wild duck skimming +the river, and the high hilltop rising and fading into the mist, the +ardent sun, and again that strange cry-- + +"Fingall!--Oh, Fingall! Fingall!" + +Two men, lounging at a fire on a ledge of the hills, raised their eyes to +the mountain-side beyond and above them, and one said presently: + +"The second time. It's a woman's voice, Pierre." Pierre nodded, and +abstractedly stirred the coals about with a twig. + +"Well, it is a pity--the poor Cynthie," he said at last. + +"It is a woman, then. You know her, Pierre--her story?" + +"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" + +Pierre raised his head towards the sound; then after a moment, said: + +"I know Fingall." + +"And the woman? Tell me." + +"And the girl. Fingall was all fire and heart, and devil-may-care. +She--she was not beautiful except in the eye, but that was like a flame +of red and blue. Her hair, too--then--would trip her up, if it hung +loose. That was all, except that she loved him too much. But women-- +et puis, when a woman gets a man between her and the heaven above and the +earth beneath, and there comes the great hunger, what is the good! A man +cannot understand, but he can see, and he can fear. What is the good! +To play with life, that is not much; but to play with a soul is more than +a thousand lives. Look at Cynthie." + +He paused, and Lawless waited patiently. Presently Pierre continued: + +Fingall was gentil; he would take off his hat to a squaw. It made no +difference what others did; he didn't think--it was like breathing to +him. How can you tell the way things happen? Cynthie's father kept the +tavern at St. Gabriel's Fork, over against the great saw-mill. Fingall +was foreman of a gang in the lumberyard. Cynthie had a brother--Fenn. +Fenn was as bad as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall knew it +well, though he hated the young skunk. The girl's eyes were like two +little fire-flies when Fingall was about. + +"He was a gentleman, though he had only half a name--Fingall--like that. +I think he did not expect to stay; he seemed to be waiting for something +--always when the mail come in he would be there; and afterwards you +wouldn't see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he made up his mind +to think nothing of Cynthie, and to say nothing." + +"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" + +The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded nearer. "She's coming this +way, Pierre," said Lawless. + +"I hope not to see her. What is the good!" + +"Well, let us have the rest of the story." + +"Her brother Fenn was in Fingall's gang. One day there was trouble. +Fenn called Fingall a liar. The gang stopped piling; the usual thing did +not come. Fingall told him to leave the yard, and they would settle some +other time. That night a wicked thing happened. We were sitting in the +bar-room when we heard two shots and then a fall. We ran into the other +room; there was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted himself on his +elbow, pointed at Fingall--and fell back. The father of the boy stood +white and still a few feet away. There was no pistol showing--none at +all. + +"The men closed in on Fingall. He did not stir--he seemed to be thinking +of something else. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look. The men roared +round him, but he waved them back for a moment, and looked first at the +father, then at the son. I could not understand at first. Someone +pulled a pistol out of Fingall's pocket and showed it. At that moment +Cynthie came in. She gave a cry. By the holy! I do not want to hear a +cry like that often. She fell on her knees beside the boy, and caught +his head to her breast. Then with a wild look she asked who did it. +They had just taken Fingall out into the bar-room. They did not tell +her his name, for they knew that she loved him. + +"'Father,' she said all at once, 'have you killed the man that killed +Fenn?' + +"The old man shook his head. There was a sick colour in his face. + +"'Then I will kill him,' she said. + +"She laid her brother's head down, and stood up. Someone put in her hand +the pistol, and told her it was the same that had killed Fenn. She took +it, and came with us. The old man stood still where he was; he was like +stone. I looked at him for a minute and thought; then I turned round and +went to the bar-room; and he followed. Just as I got inside the door, +I saw the girl start back, and her hand drop, for she saw that it was +Fingall; he was looking at her very strange. It was the rule to empty +the gun into a man who had been sentenced; and already Fingall had heard +his, 'God-have-mercy!' The girl was to do it. + +"Fingall said to her in a muffled voice, 'Fire--Cynthie!' + +"I guessed what she would do. In a kind of a dream she raised the pistol +up--up--up, till I could see it was just out of range of his head, and +she fired. One! two! three! four! five! Fingall never moved a +muscle; but the bullets spotted the wall at the side of his head. She +stopped after the five; but the arm was still held out, and her finger +was on the trigger; she seemed to be all dazed. Only six chambers were +in the gun, and of course one chamber was empty. Fenn had its bullet in +his lungs, as we thought. So someone beside Cynthie touched her arm, +pushing it down. But there was another shot, and this time, because of +the push, the bullet lodged in Fingall's skull." + +Pierre paused now, and waved with his hand towards the mist which hung +high up like a canopy between the hills. + +"But," said Lawless, not heeding the scene, "what about that sixth +bullet?" + +"Holy, it is plain! Fingall did not fire the shot. His revolver was +full, every chamber, when Cynthie first took it." + +"Who killed the lad?" + +"Can you not guess? There had been words between the father and the +boy: both had fierce blood. The father, in a mad minute, fired; the boy +wanted revenge on Fingall, and, to save his father, laid it on the other. +The old man? Well, I do not know whether he was a coward, or stupid, or +ashamed--he let Fingall take it." + +"Fingall took it to spare the girl, eh?" + +"For the girl. It wasn't good for her to know her father killed his own +son." + +"What came after?" + +"The worst. That night the girl's father killed himself, and the two +were buried in the same grave. Cynthie--" + +"Fingall! Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" + +"You hear? Yes, like that all the time as she sat on the floor, +her hair about her like a cloud, and the dead bodies in the next room. +She thought she had killed Fingall, and she knew now that he was +innocent. The two were buried. Then we told her that Fingall was not +dead. She used to come and sit outside the door, and listen to his +breathing, and ask if he ever spoke of her. What was the good of lying? +If we said he did, she'd have come in to him, and that would do no good, +for he wasn't right in his mind. By and by we told her he was getting +well, and then she didn't come, but stayed at home, just saying his name +over to herself. Alors, things take hold of a woman--it is strange! +When Fingall was strong enough to go out, I went with him the first time. +He was all thin and handsome as you can think, but he had no memory, +and his eyes were like a child's. She saw him, and came out to meet him. +What does a woman care for the world when she loves a man? Well, he just +looked at her as if he'd never seen her before, and passed by without a +sign, though afterwards a trouble came in his face. Three days later he +was gone, no one knew where. That is two years ago. Ever since she has +been looking for him." + +"Is she mad?" + +"Mad? Holy Mother! it is not good to have one thing in the head all the +time! What do you think? So much all at once! And then--" + +"Hush, Pierre! There she is!" said Lawless, pointing to a ledge of rock +not far away. + +The girl stood looking out across the valley, a weird, rapt look in her +face, her hair falling loose, a staff like a shepherd's crook in one +hand, the other hand over her eyes as she slowly looked from point to +point of the horizon. + +The two watched her without speaking. Presently she saw them. She gazed +at them for a minute, then descended to them. Lawless and Pierre rose, +doffing their hats. She looked at both a moment, and her eyes settled on +Pierre. Presently she held out her hand to him. "I knew you--yesterday," +she said. + +Pierre returned the intensity of her gaze with one kind and strong. + +"So--so, Cynthie," he said; "sit down and eat." + +He dropped on a knee and drew a scone and some fish from the ashes. She +sat facing them, and, taking from a bag at her side some wild fruits, ate +slowly, saying nothing. Lawless noticed that her hair had become grey at +her temples, though she was but one-and-twenty years old. Her face, +brown as it was, shone with a white kind of light, which may, or may not, +have come from the crucible of her eyes, where the tragedy of her life +was fusing. Lawless could not bear to look long, for the fire that +consumes a body and sets free a soul is not for the sight of the quick. +At last she rose, her body steady, but her hands having that tremulous +activity of her eyes. + +"Will you not stay, Cynthie?" asked Lawless very kindly. + +She came close to him, and, after searching his eyes, said with a smile +that almost hurt him, "When I have found him, I will bring him to your +camp-fire. Last night the Voice said that he waits for me where the mist +rises from the river at daybreak, close to the home of the White Swan. +Do you know where is the home of the White Swan? Before the frost comes +and the red wolf cries, I must find him. Winter is the time of sleep. + +"I will give him honey and dried meat. I know where we shall live +together. You never saw such roses! Hush! I have a place where we can +hide." + +Suddenly her gaze became fixed and dream-like, and she said slowly: +"In all time of our tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the hour +of death, and in the Day of Judgment, Good Lord, deliver us!" + +"Good Lord, deliver us!" repeated Lawless in a low voice. Without +looking at them, she slowly turned away and passed up the hill-side, her +eyes scanning the valley as before. + +"Good Lord, deliver us!" again said Lawless. "Where did she get it?" + +"From a book which Fingall left behind." + +They watched her till she rounded a cliff, and was gone; then they +shouldered their kits and passed up the river on the trail of the wapiti. + +One month later, when a fine white surf of frost lay on the ground, +and the sky was darkened often by the flight of the wild geese southward, +they came upon a hut perched on a bluff, at the edge of a clump of pines. +It was morning, and Whitefaced Mountain shone clear and high, without a +touch of cloud or mist from its haunches to its crown. + +They knocked at the hut door, and, in answer to a voice, entered. The +sunlight streamed in over a woman, lying upon a heap of dried flowers in +a corner. A man was kneeling beside her. They came near, and saw that +the woman was Cynthie. + +"Fingall!" broke out Pierre, and caught the kneeling man by the +shoulder. At the sound of his voice the woman's eyes opened. + +"Fingall!--Oh, Fingall!" she said, and reached up a hand. + +Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast: "Cynthie! poor girl! Oh, +my poor Cynthie!" he said. In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, +and his voice, as hers, said indescribable things. + +Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes closed; she slept. Fingall +laid her down with a sob in his throat; then he sat up and clutched +Pierre's hand. + +"In the East, where the doctors cured me, I heard all," he said, pointing +to her, "and I came to find her. I was just in time; I found her +yesterday." + +"She knew you?" whispered Pierre. + +"Yes, but this fever came on." He turned and looked at her, and, +kneeling, smoothed away the hair from the quiet face. "Poor girl!" +he said; "poor girl!" + +"She will get well?" asked Pierre. + +"God grant it!" Fingall replied. "She is better--better." + +Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole away, leaving the man alone +with the woman he loved. + +The two stood in silence, looking upon the river beneath. Presently a +voice crept through the stillness. "Fingall! Oh, Fingall!--Fingall!" + +It was the voice of a woman returning from the dead. + + + + + + +THREE COMMANDMENTS IN THE VULGAR TONGUE + + +I + +"Read on, Pierre," the sick man said, doubling the corner of the wolf- +skin pillow so that it shaded his face from the candle. + +Pierre smiled to himself, thinking of the unusual nature of his +occupation, raised an eyebrow as if to someone sitting at the other side +of the fire,--though the room was empty save for the two--and went on +reading: + + "Woe to the multitude of many people, which make a noise like the + noise of the seas; and to the rushing of nations, that make a + rushing like the rushing of mighty waters! + + "The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters: but God + shall rebuke them, and they shall flee far off, and shall be chased + as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling + thing before the whirlwind. + + "And behold at evening-tide trouble; and before the morning he is + not. This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them + that rob us." + +The sick man put up his hand, motioning for silence, and Pierre, leaving +the Bible open, laid it at his side. Then he fell to studying the figure +on the couch. The body, though reduced by a sudden illness, had an +appearance of late youth, a firmness of mature manhood; but the hair was +grey, the beard was grizzled, and the face was furrowed and seamed as +though the man had lived a long, hard life. The body seemed thirty years +old, the head sixty; the man's exact age was forty-five. His most +singular characteristic was a fine, almost spiritual intelligence, which +showed in the dewy brightness of the eye, in the lighted face, in the +cadenced definiteness of his speech. One would have said, knowing +nothing of him, that he was a hermit; but again, noting the firm, +graceful outlines of his body, that he was a soldier. Within the past +twenty-four hours he had had a fight for life with one of the terrible +"colds" which, like an unstayed plague, close up the courses of the body, +and carry a man out of the hurly-burly, without pause to say how much or +how little he cares to go. + +Pierre, whose rude skill in medicine was got of hard experiences here and +there, had helped him back into the world again, and was himself now a +little astonished at acting as Scripture reader to a Protestant invalid. +Still, the Bible was like his childhood itself, always with him in +memory, and Old Testament history was as wine to his blood. The lofty +tales sang in his veins: of primitive man, adventure, mysterious and +exalted romance. For nearly an hour, with absorbing interest, he had +read aloud from these ancient chronicles to Fawdor, who held this Post of +the Hudson's Bay Company in the outer wilderness. + +Pierre had arrived at the Post three days before, to find a half-breed +trapper and an Indian helpless before the sickness which was hurrying to +close on John Fawdor's heart and clamp it in the vice of death. He had +come just in time. He was now ready to learn, by what ways the future +should show, why this man, of such unusual force and power, should have +lived at a desolate post in Labrador for twenty-five years. + +"'This is the portion of them that spoil us, and the lot of them that rob +us--'" Fawdor repeated the words slowly, and then said: "It is good to +be out of the restless world. Do you know the secret of life, Pierre?" + +Pierre's fingers unconsciously dropped on the Bible at his side, drumming +the leaves. His eyes wandered over Fawdor's face, and presently he +answered, "To keep your own commandments." + +"The ten?" asked the sick man, pointing to the Bible. Pierre's fingers +closed the book. "Not the ten, for they do not fit all; but one by one +to make your own, and never to break--comme ca!" + +"The answer is well," returned Fawdor; "but what is the greatest +commandment that a man can make for himself?" + +"Who can tell? What is the good of saying, 'Thou shalt keep holy the +Sabbath day,' when a man lives where he does not know the days? What is +the good of saying, 'Thou shalt not steal,' when a man has no heart to +rob, and there is nothing to steal? But a man should have a heart, an +eye for justice. It is good for him to make his commandments against +that wherein he is a fool or has a devil. Justice,--that is the thing." + +"'Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbour'?" asked +Fawdor softly. + +"Yes, like that. But a man must put it in his own words, and keep the +law which he makes. Then life does not give a bad taste in the mouth." + +"What commandments have you made for yourself, Pierre?" + +The slumbering fire in Pierre's face leaped up. He felt for an instant +as his father, a chevalier of France, might have felt if a peasant had +presumed to finger the orders upon his breast. It touched his native +pride, so little shown in anything else. But he knew the spirit behind +the question, and the meaning justified the man. "Thou shalt think with +the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman," he said, and +paused. + +"Justice and mercy," murmured the voice from the bed. + +"Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket." Again Pierre paused. + +"And a man shall have no cause to fear his friend," said the voice again. + +The pause was longer this time, and Pierre's cold, handsome face took on +a kind of softness before he said, "Remember the sorrow of thine own +wife." + +"It is a good commandment," said the sick man, "to make all women safe +whether they be true--or foolish." + +"The strong should be ashamed to prey upon the weak. Pshaw! such a +sport ends in nothing. Man only is man's game." + +Suddenly Pierre added: "When you thought you were going to die, you gave +me some papers and letters to take to Quebec. You will get well. Shall +I give them back? Will you take them yourself?" + +Fawdor understood: Pierre wished to know his story. He reached out a +hand, saying, "I will take them myself. You have not read them?" + +"No. I was not to read them till you died--bien?" He handed the packet +over. + +"I will tell you the story," Fawdor said, turning over on his side, so +that his eyes rested full on Pierre. + +He did not begin at once. An Esquimau dog, of the finest and yet wildest +breed, which had been lying before the fire, stretched itself, opened its +red eyes at the two men, and, slowly rising, went to the door and sniffed +at the cracks. Then it turned, and began pacing restlessly around the +room. Every little while it would stop, sniff the air, and go on again. +Once or twice, also, as it passed the couch of the sick man, it paused, +and at last it suddenly rose, rested two feet on the rude headboard of +the couch, and pushed its nose against the invalid's head. There was +something rarely savage and yet beautifully soft in the dog's face, +scarred as it was by the whips of earlier owners. The sick man's hand +went up and caressed the wolfish head. "Good dog, good Akim!" he said +softly in French. "Thou dost know when a storm is on the way; thou dost +know, too, when there is a storm in my heart." + +Even as he spoke a wind came crying round the house, and the parchment +windows gave forth a soft booming sound. Outside, Nature was trembling +lightly in all her nerves; belated herons, disturbed from the freshly +frozen pool, swept away on tardy wings into the night and to the south; +a herd of wolves, trooping by the hut, passed from a short, easy trot to +a low, long gallop, devouring, yet fearful. It appeared as though the +dumb earth were trying to speak, and the mighty effort gave it pain, +from which came awe and terror to living things. + +So, inside the house, also, Pierre almost shrank from the unknown sorrow +of this man beside him, who was about to disclose the story of his life. +The solitary places do not make men glib of tongue; rather, spare of +words. They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly, being +given the woe of imagination, bring forth inner history as a mother gasps +life into the world. + +"I was only a boy of twenty-one," Fawdor said from the pillow, as he +watched the dog noiselessly travelling from corner to corner, "and I had +been with the Company three years. They had said that I could rise fast; +I had done so. I was ambitious; yet I find solace in thinking that I saw +only one way to it,--by patience, industry, and much thinking. I read a +great deal, and cared for what I read; but I observed also, that in +dealing with men I might serve myself and the Company wisely. + +"One day the governor of the Company came from England, and with him a +sweet lady, his young niece, and her brother. They arranged for a tour +to the Great Lakes, and I was chosen to go with them in command of the +boatmen. It appeared as if a great chance had come to me, and so said +the factor at Lachine on the morning we set forth. The girl was as +winsome as you can think; not of such wonderful beauty, but with a face +that would be finer old than young; and a dainty trick of humour had she +as well. The governor was a testy man; he could not bear to be crossed +in a matter; yet, in spite of all, I did not think he had a wilful +hardness. It was a long journey, and we were set to our wits to make it +always interesting; but we did it somehow, for there were fishing and +shooting, and adventure of one sort and another, and the lighter things, +such as singing and the telling of tales, as the boatmen rowed the long +river. + +"We talked of many things as we travelled, and I was glad to listen to +the governor, for he had seen and read much. It was clear he liked to +have us hang upon his tales and his grand speeches, which seemed a little +large in the mouth; and his nephew, who had a mind for raillery, was now +and again guilty of some witty impertinence; but this was hard to bring +home to him, for he could assume a fine childlike look when he pleased, +confusing to his accusers. Towards the last he grew bolder, and said +many a biting thing to both the governor and myself, which more than once +turned his sister's face pale with apprehension, for she had a nice sense +of kindness. Whenever the talk was at all general, it was his delight to +turn one against the other. Though I was wary, and the girl understood +his game, at last he had his way. + +"I knew Shakespeare and the Bible very well, and, like most bookish young +men, phrase and motto were much on my tongue, though not always given +forth. One evening, as we drew to the camp-fire, a deer broke from the +woods and ran straight through the little circle we were making, and +disappeared in the bushes by the riverside. Someone ran for a rifle; but +the governor forbade, adding, with an air, a phrase with philosophical +point. I, proud of the chance to show I was not a mere backwoodsman at +such a sport, capped his aphorism with a line from Shakespeare's +Cymbeline. + +"'Tut, tut!' said the governor smartly; 'you haven't it well, Mr. Fawdor; +it goes this way,' and he went on to set me right. His nephew at that +stepped in, and, with a little disdainful laugh at me, made some galling +gibe at my 'distinguished learning.' I might have known better than to +let it pique me, but I spoke up again, though respectfully enough, that +I was not wrong. It appeared to me all at once as if some principle were +at stake, as if I were the champion of our Shakespeare; so will vanity +delude us. + +"The governor--I can see it as if it were yesterday--seemed to go like +ice, for he loved to be thought infallible in all such things as well as +in great business affairs, and his nephew was there to give an edge to +the matter. He said, curtly, that I would probably come on better in the +world if I were more exact and less cock-a-hoop with myself. That stung +me, for not only was the young lady looking on with a sort of superior +pity, as I thought, but her brother was murmuring to her under his breath +with a provoking smile. I saw no reason why I should be treated like a +schoolboy. As far as my knowledge went it was as good as another man's, +were he young or old, so I came in quickly with my reply. I said that +his excellency should find me more cock-a-hoop with Shakespeare than with +myself. 'Well, well,' he answered, with a severe look, 'our Company has +need of great men for hard tasks.' To this I made no answer, for I got +a warning look from the young lady,--a look which had a sort of reproach +and command too. She knew the twists and turns of her uncle's temper, +and how he was imperious and jealous in little things. The matter +dropped for the time; but as the governor was going to his tent for the +night, the young lady said to me hurriedly, 'My uncle is a man of great +reading--and power, Mr. Fawdor. I would set it right with him, if I were +you.' For the moment I was ashamed. You cannot guess how fine an eye +she had, and how her voice stirred one! She said no more, but stepped +inside her tent; and then I heard the brother say over my shoulder, 'Oh, +why should the spirit of mortal be proud!' Afterwards, with a little +laugh and a backward wave of the hand, as one might toss a greeting to +a beggar, he was gone also, and I was left alone." + +Fawdor paused in his narrative. The dog had lain down by the fire again, +but its red eyes were blinking at the door, and now and again it growled +softly, and the long hair at its mouth seemed to shiver with feeling. +Suddenly through the night there rang a loud, barking cry. The dog's +mouth opened and closed in a noiseless snarl, showing its keen, long +teeth, and a ridge of hair bristled on its back. But the two men made +no sign or motion. The cry of wild cats was no new thing to them. + +Presently the other continued: "I sat by the fire and heard beasts howl +like that, I listened to the river churning over the rapids below, and I +felt all at once a loneliness that turned me sick. There were three +people in a tent near me; I could even hear the governor's breathing; but +I appeared to have no part in the life of any human being, as if I were a +kind of outlaw of God and man. I was poor; I had no friends; I was at +the mercy of this great Company; if I died, there was not a human being +who, so far as I knew, would shed a tear. Well, you see I was only a +boy, and I suppose it was the spirit of youth hungering for the huge, +active world and the companionship of ambitious men. There is no one so +lonely as the young dreamer on the brink of life. "I was lying by the +fire. It was not a cold night, and I fell asleep at last without +covering. I did not wake till morning, and then it was to find the +governor's nephew building up the fire again. 'Those who are born +great,' said he, 'are bound to rise.' But perhaps he saw that I had had +a bad night, and felt that he had gone far enough, for he presently said, +in a tone more to my liking, 'Take my advice, Mr. Fawdor; make it right +with my uncle. It isn't such fast rising in the Company that you can +afford to quarrel with its governor. I'd go on the other tack: don't be +too honest.' I thanked him, and no more was said; but I liked him +better, for I saw that he was one of those who take pleasure in dropping +nettles more to see the weakness of human nature than from malice. + +"But my good fortune had got a twist, and it was not to be straightened +that day; and because it was not straightened then it was not to be at +all; for at five o'clock we came to the Post at Lachine, and here the +governor and the others were to stop. During all the day I had waited +for my chance to say a word of apology to his excellency, but it was no +use; nothing seemed to help me, for he was busy with his papers and +notes, and I also had to finish up my reports. The hours went by, and +I saw my chances drift past. I knew that the governor held the thing +against me, and not the less because he saw me more than once that day in +speech with his niece. For she appeared anxious to cheer me, and indeed +I think we might have become excellent friends had our ways run together. +She could have bestowed her friendship on me without shame to herself, +for I had come of an old family in Scotland, the Sheplaws of Canfire, +which she knew, as did the governor also, was a more ancient family than +their own. Yet her kindness that day worked me no good, and I went far +to make it worse, since, under the spell of her gentleness, I looked at +her far from distantly, and at the last, as she was getting from the +boat, returned the pressure of her hand with much interest. I suppose +something of the pride of that moment leaped up in my eye, for I saw the +governor's face harden more and more, and the brother shrugged an +ironical shoulder. I was too young to see or know that the chief thing +in the girl's mind was regret that I had so hurt my chances; for she +knew, as I saw only too well afterwards, that I might have been rewarded +with a leaping promotion in honour of the success of the journey. But +though the boatmen got a gift of money and tobacco and spirits, nothing +came to me save the formal thanks of the governor, as he bowed me from +his presence. + +"The nephew came with his sister to bid me farewell. There was little +said between her and me, and it was a long, long time before she knew the +end of that day's business. But the brother said, 'You've let, the +chance go by, Mr. Fawdor. Better luck next time, eh? And,' he went on, +'I'd give a hundred editions the lie, but I'd read the text according to +my chief officer. The words of a king are always wise while his head is +on,' he declared further, and he drew from his scarf a pin of pearls and +handed it to me. 'Will you wear that for me, Mr. Fawdor?' he asked; and +I, who had thought him but a stripling with a saucy pride, grasped his +hand and said a God-keep-you. It does me good now to think I said +it. I did not see him or his sister again. + +"The next day was Sunday. About two o'clock I was sent for by the +governor. When I got to the Post and was admitted to him, I saw that my +misadventure was not over. 'Mr. Fawdor,' said he coldly, spreading out a +map on the table before him, 'you will start at once for Fort Ungava, at +Ungava Bay, in Labrador.' I felt my heart stand still for a moment, and +then surge up and down, like a piston-rod under a sudden rush of steam. +'You will proceed now,' he went on, in his hard voice, 'as far as the +village of Pont Croix. There you will find three Indians awaiting you. +You will go on with them as far as Point St. Saviour and camp for the +night, for if the Indians remain in the village they may get drunk. The +next morning, at sunrise, you will move on. The Indians know the trail +across Labrador to Fort Ungava. When you reach there, you will take +command of the Post and remain till further orders. Your clothes are +already at the village. I have had them packed, and you will find there +also what is necessary for the journey. The factor at Ungava was there +ten years; he has gone--to heaven.' + +"I cannot tell what it was held my tongue silent, that made me only bow +my head in assent, and press my lips together. I knew I was pale as +death, for as I turned to leave the room I caught sight of my face in a +little mirror tacked on the door, and I hardly recognised myself. + +"'Good-day, Mr. Fawdor,' said the governor, handing me the map. 'There +is some brandy in your stores; be careful that none of your Indians get +it. If they try to desert, you know what to do.' With a gesture of +dismissal he turned, and began to speak with the chief trader. + +"For me, I went from that room like a man condemned to die. Fort Ungava +in Labrador,--a thousand miles away, over a barren, savage country, and +in winter too; for it would be winter there immediately! It was an exile +to Siberia, and far worse than Siberia; for there are many there to share +the fellowship of misery, and I was likely to be the only white man at +Fort Ungava. As I passed from the door of the Post the words of +Shakespeare which had brought all this about sang in my ears." He ceased +speaking, and sank back wearily among the skins of his couch. Out of the +enveloping silence Pierre's voice came softly: + +"Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one +woman." + + + +II + +"The journey to the village of Pont Croix was that of a man walking over +graves. Every step sent a pang to my heart,--a boy of twenty-one, grown +old in a moment. It was not that I had gone a little lame from a hurt +got on the expedition with the governor, but my whole life seemed +suddenly lamed. Why did I go? Ah, you do not know how discipline gets +into a man's bones, the pride, the indignant pride of obedience! At that +hour I swore that I should myself be the governor of that Company one +day,--the boast of loud-hearted youth. I had angry visions, I dreamed +absurd dreams, but I did not think of disobeying. It was an unheard-of +journey at such a time, but I swore that I would do it, that it should go +into the records of the Company. + +"I reached the village, found the Indians, and at once moved on to the +settlement where we were to stay that night. Then my knee began to pain +me. I feared inflammation; so in the dead of night I walked back to the +village, roused a trader of the Company, got some liniment and other +trifles, and arrived again at St. Saviour's before dawn. My few clothes +and necessaries came in the course of the morning, and by noon we were +fairly started on the path to exile. + +"I remember that we came to a lofty point on the St. Lawrence just before +we plunged into the woods, to see the great stream no more. I stood and +looked back up the river towards the point where Lachine lay. All that +went to make the life of a Company's man possible was there; and there, +too, were those with whom I had tented and travelled for three long +months,--eaten with them, cared for them, used for them all the woodcraft +that I knew. I could not think that it would be a young man's lifetime +before I set eyes on that scene again. Never from that day to this have +I seen the broad, sweet river where I spent the three happiest years of +my life. I can see now the tall shining heights of Quebec, the pretty +wooded Island of Orleans, the winding channel, so deep, so strong. The +sun was three-fourths of its way down in the west, and already the sky +was taking on the deep red and purple of autumn. Somehow, the thing that +struck me most in the scene was a bunch of pines, solemn and quiet, their +tops burnished by the afternoon light. Tears would have been easy then. +But my pride drove them back from my eyes to my angry heart. Besides, +there were my Indians waiting, and the long journey lay before us. Then, +perhaps because there was none nearer to make farewell to, or I know not +why, I waved my hand towards the distant village of Lachine, and, with +the sweet maid in my mind who had so gently parted from me yesterday, I +cried, 'Good-bye, and God bless you.'" + +He paused. Pierre handed him a wooden cup, from which he drank, and then +continued: + +"The journey went forward. You have seen the country. You know what it +is: those bare ice-plains and rocky unfenced fields stretching to all +points, the heaving wastes of treeless country, the harsh frozen lakes. +God knows what insupportable horror would have settled on me in that +pilgrimage had it not been for occasional glimpses of a gentler life--for +the deer and caribou which crossed our path. Upon my soul, I was so full +of gratitude and love at the sight that I could have thrown my arms round +their necks and kissed them. I could not raise a gun at them. My +Indians did that, and so inconstant is the human heart that I ate +heartily of the meat. My Indians were almost less companionable to me +than any animal would have been. Try as I would, I could not bring +myself to like them, and I feared only too truly that they did not like +me. Indeed, I soon saw that they meant to desert me,--kill me, perhaps, +if they could, although I trusted in the wholesome and restraining fear +which the Indian has of the great Company. I was not sure that they were +guiding me aright, and I had to threaten death in case they tried to +mislead me or desert me. My knee at times was painful, and cold, hunger, +and incessant watchfulness wore on me vastly. Yet I did not yield to my +miseries, for there entered into me then not only the spirit of +endurance, but something of that sacred pride in suffering which +was the merit of my Covenanting forefathers. + +"We were four months on that bitter travel, and I do not know how it +could have been made at all, had it not been for the deer that I had +heart to eat and none to kill. The days got shorter and shorter, and we +were sometimes eighteen hours in absolute darkness. Thus you can imagine +how slowly we went. Thank God, we could sleep, hid away in our fur bags, +more often without a fire than with one,--mere mummies stretched out on a +vast coverlet of white, with the peering, unfriendly sky above us; though +it must be said that through all those many, many weeks no cloud perched +in the zenith. When there was light there was sun, and the courage of it +entered into our bones, helping to save us. You may think I have been +made feeble-minded by my sufferings, but I tell you plainly that, in the +closing days of our journey, I used to see a tall figure walking beside +me, who, whenever I would have spoken to him, laid a warning finger on +his lips; but when I would have fallen, he spoke to me, always in the +same words. You have heard of him, the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash +Hills. It was he, the Sentinel of the North, the Lover of the Lost. +So deep did his words go into my heart that they have remained with +me to this hour." + +"I saw him once in the White Valley," Pierre said in a low voice. "What +was it he said to you?" + +The other drew a long breath, and a smile rested on his lips. Then, +slowly, as though liking to linger over them, he repeated the words of +the Scarlet Hunter: + + "'O son of man, behold! + If thou shouldest stumble on the nameless trail, + The trail that no man rides, + Lift up thy heart, + Behold, O son of man, thou hast a helper near! + + "'O son of man, take heed! + If thou shouldst fall upon the vacant plain, + The plain that no man loves, + Reach out thy hand, + Take heed, O son of man, strength shall be given thee! + + "'O son of man, rejoice! + If thou art blinded even at the door, + The door of the Safe Tent, + Sing in thy heart, + Rejoice, O son of man, thy pilot leads thee home?' + +"I never seemed to be alone after that--call it what you will, fancy or +delirium. My head was so light that it appeared to spin like a star, and +my feet were so heavy that I dragged the whole earth after me. My +Indians seldom spoke. I never let them drop behind me, for I did not +trust their treacherous natures. But in the end, as it would seem, they +also had but one thought, and that to reach Fort Ungava; for there was no +food left, none at all. We saw no tribes of Indians and no Esquimaux, +for we had not passed in their line of travel or settlement. + +"At last I used to dream that birds were singing near me,--a soft, +delicate whirlwind of sound; and then bells all like muffled silver rang +through the aching, sweet air. Bits of prayer and poetry I learned when +a boy flashed through my mind; equations in algebra; the tingling scream +of a great buzz-saw; the breath of a racer as he nears the post under the +crying whip; my own voice dropping loud profanity, heard as a lad from +a blind ferryman; the boom! boom! of a mass of logs as they struck a +house on a flooding river and carried it away. . . . + +"One day we reached the end. It was near evening, and we came to the top +of a wooded knoll. My eyes were dancing in my head with fatigue and +weakness, but I could see below us, on the edge of the great bay, a large +hut, Esquimau lodges and Indian tepees near it. It was the Fort, my +cheerless prison-house." + +He paused. The dog had been watching him with its flaming eyes; now it +gave a low growl, as though it understood, and pitied. In the interval +of silence the storm without broke. The trees began to quake and cry, +the light snow to beat upon the parchment windows, and the chimney to +splutter and moan. Presently, out on the bay they could hear the young +ice break and come scraping up the shore. Fawdor listened a while, and +then went on, waving his hand to the door as he began: "Think! this, and +like that always: the ungodly strife of nature, and my sick, disconsolate +life." + +"Ever since?" asked Pierre. "All the time." + +"Why did you not go back?" + +"I was to wait for orders, and they never came." + +"You were a free man, not a slave." + +"The human heart has pride. At first, as when I left the governor at +Lachine, I said, 'I will never speak, I will never ask nor bend the knee. +He has the power to oppress; I can obey without whining, as fine a man as +he.'" + +"Did you not hate?" + +"At first, as only a banished man can hate. I knew that if all had gone +well I should be a man high up in the Company, and here I was, living +like a dog in the porch of the world, sometimes without other food for +months than frozen fish; and for two years I was in a place where we had +no fire,--lived in a snow-house, with only blubber to eat. And so year +after year, no word!" + +"The mail came once every year from the world?" "Yes, once a year the +door of the outer life was opened. A ship came into the bay, and by that +ship I sent out my reports. But no word came from the governor, and no +request went from me. Once the captain of that ship took me by the +shoulders, and said, 'Fawdor, man, this will drive you mad. Come away to +England,--leave your half-breed in charge,--and ask the governor for a +big promotion.' He did not understand. Of course I said I could not go. +Then he turned on me, he was a good man,--and said, 'This will either +make you madman or saint, Fawdor.' He drew a Bible from his pocket and +handed it to me. 'I've used it twenty years,' he said, 'in evil and out +of evil, and I've spiked it here and there; it's a chart for heavy seas, +and may you find it so, my lad.' + +"I said little then; but when I saw the sails of his ship round a cape +and vanish, all my pride and strength were broken up, and I came in a +heap to the ground, weeping like a child. But the change did not come +all at once. There were two things that kept me hard." + +"The girl?" + +"The girl, and another. But of the young lady after. I had a half-breed +whose life I had saved. I was kind to him always; gave him as good to +eat and drink as I had myself; divided my tobacco with him; loved him as +only an exile can love a comrade. He conspired with the Indians to seize +the Fort and stores, and kill me if I resisted. I found it out." + +"Thou shalt keep the faith of food and blanket," said Pierre. "What did +you do with him?" + +"The fault was not his so much as of his race and his miserable past. I +had loved him. I sent him away; and he never came back." + +"Thou shalt judge with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one +woman." + +"For the girl. There was the thing that clamped my heart. Never a +message from her or her brother. Surely they knew, and yet never, +thought I, a good word for me to the governor. They had forgotten the +faith of food and blanket. And she--she must have seen that I could have +worshipped her, had we been in the same way of life. Before the better +days came to me I was hard against her, hard and rough at heart." + +"Remember the sorrow of thine own wife." Pierre's voice was gentle. + +"Truly, to think hardly of no woman should be always in a man's heart. +But I have known only one woman of my race in twenty-five years!" + +"And as time went on?" + +"As time went on, and no word came, I ceased to look for it. But I +followed that chart spiked with the captain's pencil, as he had done it +in season and out of season, and by and by I ceased to look for any word. +I even became reconciled to my life. The ambitious and aching cares of +the world dropped from me, and I stood above all--alone in my suffering, +yet not yielding. Loneliness is a terrible thing. Under it a man--" + +"Goes mad or becomes a saint--a saint!" Pierre's voice became reverent. + +Fawdor shook his head, smiling gently. "Ah no, no. But I began to +understand the world, and I loved the north, the beautiful hard north." + +"But there is more?" + +"Yes, the end of it all. Three days before you came I got a packet of +letters, not by the usual yearly mail. One announced that the governor +was dead. Another--" + +"Another?" urged Pierre. + +--"was from Her. She said that her brother, on the day she wrote, had by +chance come across my name in the Company's records, and found that I had +been here a quarter of a century. It was the letter of a good woman. +She said she thought the governor had forgotten that he had sent me here +--as now I hope he had, for that would be one thing less for him to think +of, when he set out on the journey where the only weight man carries is +the packload of his sins. She also said that she had written to me twice +after we parted at Lachine, but had never heard a word, and three years +afterwards she had gone to India. The letters were lost, I suppose, +on the way to me, somehow--who can tell? Then came another thing, so +strange, that it seemed like the laughter of the angels at us. These +were her words: 'And, dear Mr. Fawdor, you were both wrong in that +quotation, as you no doubt discovered long ago.' Then she gave me the +sentence as it is in Cymbeline. She was right, quite right. We were +both wrong. Never till her letter came had I looked to see. How vain, +how uncertain, and fallible, is man!" + +Pierre dropped his cigarette, and stared at Fawdor. "The knowledge of +books is foolery," he said slowly. "Man is the only book of life. Go +on." + +"There was another letter, from the brother, who was now high up in the +Company, asking me to come to England, and saying that they wished to +promote me far, and that he and his sister, with their families, would be +glad to see me." + +"She was married then?" + +The rashness of the suggestion made Fawdor wave his hand impatiently. +He would not reply to it. "I was struck down with all the news," he +said. "I wandered like a child out into a mad storm. Illness came; then +you, who have nursed me back to life. . . . And now I have told all." + +"Not all, bien sur. What will you do?" + +"I am out of the world; why tempt it all again? See how those twenty- +five years were twisted by a boy's vanity and a man's tyranny!" + +"But what will you do?" persisted Pierre. "You should see the faces of +women and children again. No man can live without that sight, even as a +saint." + +Suddenly Fawdor's face was shot over with a storm of feeling. He lay +very still, his thoughts busy with a new world which had been disclosed +to him. "Youth hungers for the vanities," he said, "and the middle-aged +for home." He took Pierre's hand. "I will go," he added. "A door will +open somewhere for me." + +Then he turned his face to the wall. The storm had ceased, the wild dog +huddled quietly on the hearth, and for hours the only sound was the +crackling of the logs as Pierre stirred the fire. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth +Don't be too honest +Every shot that kills ricochets +Not good to have one thing in the head all the time +Remember the sorrow of thine own wife +Secret of life: to keep your own commandments +She had not suffered that sickness, social artifice +Some people are rough with the poor--and proud +They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly +Think with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman +Youth hungers for the vanities + + + + + + +A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + +BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE" +AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 4. + + +LITTLE BABICHE +AT POINT O' BUGLES +THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA +THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS +THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR + + + + +LITTLE BABICHE + +"No, no, m'sieu' the governor, they did not tell you right. I was with +him, and I have known Little Babiche fifteen years--as long as I've known +you. . . . It was against the time when down in your world there they +have feastings, and in the churches the grand songs and many candles on +the altars. Yes, Noel, that is the word--the day of the Great Birth. +You shall hear how strange it all was--the thing, the time, the end of +it." + +The governor of the great Company settled back in a chair, his powerful +face seamed by years, his hair grey and thick still, his keen, steady +eyes burning under shaggy brows. He had himself spent long solitary +years in the wild fastnesses of the north. He fastened his dark eyes on +Pierre, and said: "Monsieur Pierre, I shall be glad to hear. It was at +the time of Noel--yes?" + +Pierre began: "You have seen it beautiful and cold in the north, but +never so cold and beautiful as it was last year. The world was white +with sun and ice, the frost never melting, the sun never warming--just +a glitter, so lovely, so deadly. If only you could keep the heart warm, +you were not afraid. But if once--just for a moment--the blood ran out +from the heart and did not come in again, the frost clamped the doors +shut, and there was an end of all. Ah, m'sieu', when the north clinches +a man's heart in anger there is no pain like it--for a moment." + +"Yes, yes; and Little Babiche?" + +"For ten years he carried the mails along the route of Fort St. Mary, +Fort O'Glory, Fort St. Saviour, and Fort Perseverance within the circle- +just one mail once a year, but that was enough. There he was with his +Esquimaux dogs on the trail, going and coming, with a laugh and a word +for anyone that crossed his track. 'Good-day, Babiche' 'Good-day, +m'sieu'.' 'How do you, Babiche?' 'Well, thank the Lord, m'sieu'.' +'Where to and where from, Babiche?' 'To the Great Fort by the old trail, +from the Far-off River, m'sieu'.' 'Come safe along, Babiche.' 'Merci, +m'sieu'; the good God travels north, m'sieu'.' 'Adieu, Babiche.' 'Adieu, +m'sieu'.' That is about the way of the thing, year after year. Sometimes +a night at a hut or a post, but mostly alone--alone, except for the dogs. +He slept with them, and they slept on the mails--to guard: as though +there should be highwaymen on the Prairie of the Ten Stars! But no, it +was his way, m'sieu'. Now and again I crossed him on the trail, for have +I not travelled to every corner of the north? We were not so great +friends, for--well, Babiche is a man who says his aves, and never was a +loafer, and there was no reason why he should have love for me; but we +were good company when we met. I knew him when he was a boy down on the +Chaudiere, and he always had a heart like a lion-and a woman. I had seen +him fight, I had seen him suffer cold, and I had heard him sing. + +"Well, I was up last fall to Fort St. Saviour. Ho, how dull was it! +Macgregor, the trader there, has brains like rubber. So I said, I will +go down to Fort O'Glory. I knew someone would be there--it is nearer the +world. So I started away with four dogs and plenty of jerked buffalo, +and so much brown brandy as Macgregor could squeeze out of his eye! +Never, never were there such days--the frost shaking like steel and +silver as it powdered the sunlight, the white level of snow lifting and +falling, and falling and lifting, the sky so great a travel away, the air +which made you cry out with pain one minute and gave you joy the next. +And all so wild, so lonely! Yet I have seen hanging in those plains +cities all blue and red with millions of lights showing, and voices, +voices everywhere, like the singing of soft masses. After a time in that +cold up there you are no longer yourself--no. You move in a dream. "Eh +bien, m'sieu', there came, I thought, a dream to me one evening--well, +perhaps one afternoon, for the days are short--so short, the sun just +coming over a little bend of sky, and sinking down like a big orange +ball. I come out of a tumble of little hills, and there over on the +plains I saw a sight! Ragged hills of ice were thrown up, as if they'd +been heaved out by the breaking earth, jutting here and there like +wedges--like the teeth of a world. Alors, on one crag, shaped as an +anvil, I saw what struck me like a blow, and I felt the blood shoot out +of my heart and leave it dry. I was for a minute like a pump with no +water in its throat to work the piston and fetch the stream up. I got +sick and numb. There on that anvil of snow and ice I saw a big white +bear, one such as you shall see within the Arctic Circle, his long nose +fetching out towards that bleeding sun in the sky, his white coat +shining. But that was not the thing--there was another. At the feet of +the bear was a body, and one clawed foot was on that body--of a man. So +clear was the air, the red sun shining on the face as it was turned +towards me, that I wonder I did not at once know whose it was. You +cannot think, m'sieu', what that was like--no. But all at once I +remembered the Chant of the Scarlet Hunter. I spoke it quick, and the +blood came creeping back in here." He tapped his chest with his slight +forefinger. + +"What was the chant?" asked the governor, who had scarce stirred a +muscle since the tale began. Pierre made a little gesture of +deprecation. "Ah, it is perhaps a thing of foolishness, as you may +think--" + +"No, no. I have heard and seen in my day," urged the governor. + +"So? Good. Yes, I remember, you told me years ago, m'sieu'. . . . + + "The blinding Trail and Night and Cold are man's: mine is the trail + that finds the Ancient Lodge. Morning and Night they travel with + me; my camp is set by the pines, its fires are burning--are burning. + The lost, they shall sit by my fires, and the fearful ones shall + seek, and the sick shall abide. I am the Hunter, the Son of the + North; I am thy lover where no man may love thee. With me thou + shalt journey, and thine the Safe Tent. + +"As I said, the blood came back to my heart. I turned to my dogs, and +gave them a cut with the whip to see if I dreamed. They sat back and +snarled, and their wild red eyes, the same as mine, kept looking at the +bear and the quiet man on the anvil of ice and snow. Tell me, can you +think of anything like it?--the strange light, the white bear of the +Pole, that has no friends at all except the shooting stars, the great ice +plains, the quick night hurrying on, the silence--such silence as no man +can think! I have seen trouble flying at me in a hundred ways, but this +was different--yes. We come to the foot of the little hill. Still the +bear not stir. As I went up, feeling for my knives and my gun, the dogs +began to snarl with anger, and for one little step I shivered, for the +thing seem not natural. I was about two hundred feet away from the bear +when it turned slow round at me, lifting its foot from the body. The +dogs all at once come huddling about me, and I dropped on my knee to take +aim, but the bear stole away from the man and come moving down past us at +an angle, making for the plain. I could see his deep shining eyes, and +the steam roll from his nose in long puffs. Very slow and heavy, like as +if he see no one and care for no one, he shambled down, and in a minute +was gone behind a boulder. I ran on to the man--" + +The governor was leaning forward, looking intently, and said now: "It's +like a wild dream--but the north--the north is near to the Strangest of +All!" + +"I knelt down and lifted him up in my arms, all a great bundle of furs +and wool, and I got my hand at last to his wrist. He was alive. It was +Little Babiche! Part of his face was frozen stiff. I rubbed out the +frost with snow, and then I forced some brandy into his mouth, good old +H.B.C. brandy,--and began to call to him: 'Babiche! Babiche! Come +back, Babiche! The wolf's at the pot, Babiche!' That's the way to call +a hunter to his share of meat. I was afraid, for the sleep of cold is +the sleep of death, and it is hard to call the soul back to this world. +But I called, and kept calling, and got him on his feet, with my arm +round him. I gave him more brandy; and at last I almost shrieked in his +ear. Little by little I saw his face take on the look of waking life. +It was like the dawn creeping over white hills and spreading into day. +I said to myself: What a thing it will be if I can fetch him back! +For I never knew one to come back after the sleep had settled on them. +It is too comfortable--all pain gone, all trouble, the world forgot, just +a kind weight in all the body, as you go sinking down, down to the +valley, where the long hands of old comrades beckon to you, and their +soft, high voices cry, 'Hello! hello-o!'" Pierre nodded his head +towards the distance, and a musing smile divided his lips on his white +teeth. Presently he folded a cigarette, and went on: + +"I had saved something to the last, as the great test, as the one thing +to open his eyes wide, if they could be opened at all. Alors, there was +no time to lose, for the wolf of Night was driving the red glow-worm down +behind the world, and I knew that when darkness came altogether--darkness +and night--there would be no help for him. Mon Dieu! how one sleeps in +the night of the north, in the beautiful wide silence! . . . So, +m'sieu', just when I thought it was the time, I called, 'Corinne! +Corinne!' Then once again I said, 'P'tite Corinne! P'tite Corinne! +Come home! come home! P'tite Corinne!' I could see the fight in the +jail of sleep. But at last he killed his jailer; the doors in his brain +flew open, and his mind came out through his wide eyes. But he was blind +a little and dazed, though it was getting dark quick. I struck his back +hard, and spoke loud from a song that we used to sing on the Chaudiere-- +Babiche and all of us, years ago. Mon Dieu! how I remember those days-- + + "'Which is the way that the sun goes? + The way that my little one come. + Which is the good path over the hills? + The path that leads to my little one's home-- + To my little one's home, m'sieu', m'sieu'!' + +"That did it. 'Corinne, ma p'tite Corinne!' he said; but he did not look +at me--only stretch out his hands. I caught them, and shook them, and +shook him, and made him take a step forward; then I slap him on the back +again, and said loud: 'Come, come, Babiche, don't you know me? See +Babiche, the snow's no sleeping-bunk, and a polar bear's no good friend.' +'Corinne!' he went on, soft and slow. 'Ma p'tite Corinne!' He smiled to +himself; and I said, 'Where've you been, Babiche? Lucky I found you, or +you'd have been sleeping till the Great Mass.' Then he looked at me +straight in the eyes, and something wild shot out of his. His hand +stretched over and caught me by the shoulder, perhaps to steady himself, +perhaps because he wanted to feel something human. Then he looked round +slow-all round the plain, as if to find something. At that moment a +little of the sun crept back, and looked up over the wall of ice, making +a glow of yellow and red for a moment; and never, north or south, have I +seen such beauty--so delicate, so awful. It was like a world that its +Maker had built in a fit of joy, and then got tired of, and broke in +pieces, and blew out all its fires, and left--ah yes--like that! +And out in the distance I--I only saw a bear travelling eastwards." + +The governor said slowly: + + And I took My staff Beauty, and cut it asunder, that I might break + My covenant which I had made with all the people. + +"Yes--like that." Pierre continued: "Babiche turned to me with a little +laugh, which was a sob too. 'Where is it, Pierre?' said he. I knew he +meant the bear. 'Gone to look for another man,' I said, with a gay look, +for I saw that he was troubled. 'Come,' said he at once. As we went, he +saw my dogs. He stopped short and shook a little, and tears came into +his eyes. 'What is it, Babiche?' said I. He looked back towards the +south. 'My dogs--Brandy-wine, Come-along, 'Poleon, and the rest--died +one night all of an hour. One by one they crawl over to where I lay in +my fur bag, and die there, huddling by me--and such cries--such cries! +There was poison or something in the frozen fish I'd given them. I loved +them every one; and then there was the mails, the year's mails--how +should they be brought on? That was a bad thought, for I had never +missed--never in ten years. There was one bunch of letters which the +governor said to me was worth more than all the rest of the mails put +together, and I was to bring it to Fort St. Saviour, or not show my face +to him again. I leave the dogs there in the snow, and come on with the +sled, carrying all the mails. Ah, the blessed saints, how heavy the sled +got, and how lonely it was! Nothing to speak to--no one, no thing, day +after day. At last I go to cry to the dogs, "Come-along! 'Poleon! +Brandy-wine!"--like that! I think I see them there, but they never bark +and they never snarl, and they never spring to the snap of the whip.... +I was alone. Oh, my head! my head! If there was only something alive +to look at, besides the wide white plain, and the bare hills of ice, and +the sun-dogs in the sky! Now I was wild, next hour I was like a child, +then I gnash my teeth like a wolf at the sun, and at last I got on my +knees. The tears froze my eyelids shut, but I kept saying, "Ah, my great +Friend, my Jesu, just something, something with the breath of life! +Leave me not all alone!" and I got sleepier all the time. + +"'I was sinking, sinking, so quiet and easy, when all at once I felt +something beside me; I could hear it breathing, but I could not open my +eyes at first, for, as I say, the lashes were froze. Something touch me, +smell me, and a nose was push against my chest. I put out my hand ver' +soft and touch it. I had no fear, I was so glad I could have hug it, but +I did not--I drew back my hand quiet and rub my eyes. In a little I can +see. There stand the thing--a polar bear--not ten feet away, its red +eyes shining. On my knees I spoke to it, talk to it, as I would to a +man. It was like a great wild dog, fierce, yet kind, and I fed it with +the fish which had been for Brandy-wine and the rest--but not to kill it! +and it did not die. That night I lie down in my bag--no, I was not +afraid! The bear lie beside me, between me and the sled. Ah, it was +warm! Day after day we travel together, and camp together at night--ah, +sweet Sainte Anne, how good it was, myself and the wild beast such +friends, alone in the north! But to-day--a little while ago--something +went wrong with me, and I got sick in the head, a swimming like a tide +wash in and out. I fall down-asleep. When I wake I find you here beside +me--that is all. The bear must have drag me here.'" + +Pierre stuck a splinter into the fire to light another cigarette, and +paused as if expecting the governor to speak, but no word coming, he +continued: "I had my arm around him while we talked and come slowly down +the hill. Soon he stopped and said, 'This is the place.' It was a cave +of ice, and we went in. Nothing was there to see except the sled. +Babiche stopped short. It come to him now that his good comrade was +gone. He turned, and looked out, and called, but there was only the +empty night, the ice, and the stars. Then he come back, sat down on the +sled, and the tears fall. . . . I lit my spirit-lamp, boiled coffee, +got pemmican from my bag, and I tried to make him eat. No. He would +only drink the coffee. At last he said to me, 'What day is this, +Pierre?' 'It is the day of the Great Birth, Babiche,' I said. He made +the sign of the cross, and was quiet, so quiet! but he smile to himself, +and kept saying in a whisper: 'Ma p'tite Corinne! Ma p'tite Corinne!' +The next day we come on safe, and in a week I was back at Fort St. +Saviour with Babiche and all the mails, and that most wonderful letter +of the governor's." + +"The letter was to tell a factor that his sick child in the hospital at +Quebec was well," the governor responded quietly. "Who was 'Ma p'tite +Corinne,' Pierre?" + +"His wife--in heaven; and his child--on the Chaudiere, m'sieu'. The +child came and the mother went on the same day of the Great Birth. He +has a soft heart--that Babiche!" + +"And the white bear--so strange a thing!" + +"M'sieu', who can tell? The world is young up here. When it was all +young, man and beast were good comrades, maybe." + +"Ah, maybe. What shall be done with Little Babiche, Pierre?" + +"He will never be the same again on the old trail, m'sieu'!" + +There was silence for a long time, but at last the governor said, musing, +almost tenderly, for he never had a child: "Ma p'tite Corinne!--Little +Babiche shall live near his child, Pierre. I will see to that." + +Pierre said no word, but got up, took off his hat to the governor, and +sat down again. + + + + + + +AT POINT O' BUGLES + +"John York, John York, where art thou gone, John York?" + +"What's that, Pierre?" said Sir Duke Lawless, starting to his feet and +peering round. + +"Hush!" was Pierre's reply. "Wait for the rest. . . . There!" + +"King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy +bugles." + +Sir Duke was about to speak, but Pierre lifted a hand in warning, and +then through the still night there came the long cry of a bugle, rising, +falling, strangely clear, echoing and echoing again, and dying away. A +moment, and the call was repeated, with the same effect, and again a +third time; then all was still, save for the flight of birds roused from +the desire of night, and the long breath of some animal in the woods +sinking back to sleep. + +Their camp was pitched on the south shore of Hudson's Bay, many leagues +to the west of Rupert House, not far from the Moose River. Looking north +was the wide expanse of the bay, dotted with sterile islands here and +there; to the east were the barren steppes of Labrador, and all round +them the calm, incisive air of a late September, when winter begins to +shake out his frosty curtains and hang them on the cornice of the north, +despite the high protests of the sun. The two adventurers had come +together after years of separation, and Sir Duke had urged Pierre to fare +away with him to Hudson's Bay, which he had never seen, although he had +shares in the great Company, left him by his uncle the admiral. + +They were camped in a hollow, to the right a clump of hardy trees, with +no great deal of foliage, but some stoutness; to the left a long finger +of land running out into the water like a wedge, the most eastern point +of the western shore of Hudson's Bay. It was high and bold, and, +somehow, had a fine dignity and beauty. From it a path led away north to +a great log-fort called King's House. + +Lawless saw Pierre half rise and turn his head, listening. Presently he, +too, heard the sound-the soft crash of crisp grass under the feet. He +raised himself to a sitting posture and waited. + +Presently a tall figure came out of the dusk into the light of their +fire, and a long arm waved a greeting at them. Both Lawless and Pierre +rose to their feet. The stranger was dressed in buckskin, he carried a +rifle, and around his shoulder was a strong yellow cord, from which hung +a bugle. + +"How!" he said, with a nod, and drew near the fire, stretching out his +hands to the blaze. + +"How!" said Lawless and Pierre. + +After a moment Lawless drew from his blanket a flask of brandy, and +without a word handed it over the fire. The fingers of the two men met +in the flicker of flames, a sort of bond by fire, and the stranger raised +the flask. + +"Chin-chin," he said, and drank, breathing a long sigh of satisfaction +afterwards as he handed it back; but it was Pierre that took it, and +again fingers touched in the bond of fire. Pierre passed the flask to +Lawless, who lifted it. + +"Chin-chin," he said, drank, and gave the flask to Pierre again, who did +as did the others, and said "Chin-chin" also. + +By that salutation of the east, given in the far north, Lawless knew that +he had met one who had lighted fires where men are many and close to the +mile as holes in a sieve. + +They all sat down, and tobacco went round, the stranger offering his, +while the two others, with true hospitality, accepted. + +"We heard you over there--it was you?" said Lawless, nodding towards +Point o' Bugles, and glancing at the bugle the other carried. + +"Yes, it was I," was the reply. "Someone always does it twice a year: on +the 25th September and the 25th March. I've done it now without a break +for ten years, until it has got to be a sort of religion with me, and the +whole thing's as real as if King George and John York were talking. As I +tramp to the point or swing away back, in summer barefooted, in winter on +my snowshoes, to myself I seem to be John York on the trail of the king's +bugles. I've thought so much about the whole thing, I've read so many of +John York's letters--and how many times one of the King's!--that now I +scarcely know which is the bare story, and which the bit's I've dreamed +as I've tramped over the plains or sat in the quiet at King's House, +spelling out little by little the man's life, from the cues I found in +his journal, in the Company's papers, and in that one letter of the +King's." + +Pierre's eyes were now more keen than those of Lawless: for years he had +known vaguely of this legend of Point o' Bugles. + +"You know it all," he said--"begin at the beginning: how and when you +first heard, how you got the real story, and never mind which is taken +from the papers and which from your own mind--if it all fits in it is all +true, for the lie never fits in right with the square truth. If you have +the footprints and the handprints you can tell the whole man; if you have +the horns of a deer you know it as if you had killed it, skinned it, and +potted it." + +The stranger stretched himself before the fire, nodding at his hosts as +he did so, and then began: + +"Well, a word about myself first," he said, "so you'll know just where +you are. I was full up of life in London town and India, and that's a +fact. I'd plenty of friends and little money, and my will wasn't equal +to the task of keeping out of the hands of the Jews. I didn't know what +to do, but I had to go somewhere, that was clear. Where? An accident +decided it. I came across an old journal of my great-grandfather, John +York,--my name's Dick Adderley,--and just as if a chain had been put +round my leg and I'd been jerked over by the tipping of the world, I had +to come to Hudson's Bay. John York's journal was a thing to sit up +nights to read. It came back to England after he'd had his fill of +Hudson's Bay and the earth beneath, and had gone, as he himself said on +the last page of the journal, to follow the king's buglers in 'the land +that is far off.' God and the devil were strong in old John York. +I didn't lose much time after I'd read the journal. I went to Hudson's +Bay house in London, got a place in the Company, by the help of the +governor himself, and came out. I've learned the rest of the history of +old John York--the part that never got to England; for here at King's +House there's a holy tradition that the real John York belongs to it and +to it alone." + +Adderley laughed a little. "King's House guards John York's memory, and +it's as fresh and real here now as though he'd died yesterday; though +it's forgotten in England, and by most who bear his name, and the present +Prince of Wales maybe never heard of the roan who was a close friend of +the Prince Regent, the First Gentleman of Europe." + +"That sounds sweet gossip," said Lawless, with a smile; "we're waiting." + +Adderley continued: "John York was an honest man, of wholesome sport, +jovial, and never shirking with the wine, commendable in his appetite, +of rollicking soul and proud temper, and a gay dog altogether--gay, but +to be trusted, too, for he had a royal heart. In the coltish days of the +Prince Regent he was a boon comrade, but never did he stoop to flattery, +nor would he hedge when truth should be spoken, as ofttimes it was needed +with the royal blade, for at times he would forget that a prince was yet +a man, topped with the accident of a crown. Never prince had truer +friend, and so in his best hours he thought, himself, and if he ever was +just and showed his better part, it was to the bold country gentleman who +never minced praise or blame, but said his say and devil take the end of +it. In truth, the Prince was wilful, and once he did a thing which might +have given a twist to the fate of England. Hot for the love of women, +and with some dash of real romance in him too, else even as a prince he +might have had shallower love and service,--he called John York one day +and said: + +"'To-night at seven, Squire John, you'll stand with me while I put the +seal on the Gates of Eden;' and, when the other did not guess his import, +added: 'Sir Mark Selby is your neighbour--his daughter's for my arms to- +night. You know her, handsome Sally Selby--she's for your prince, for +good or ill.' + +"John York did not understand at first, for he could not think the Prince +had anything in mind but some hot escapade of love. When Mistress +Selby's name was mentioned his heart stood still, for she had been his +choice, the dear apple of his eye, since she had bloomed towards +womanhood. He had set all his hopes upon her, tarrying till she should +have seen some little life before he asked her for his wife. He had her +father's Godspeed to his wooing, for he was a man whom all men knew +honest and generous as the sun, and only choleric with the mean thing. +She, also, had given him good cause to think that he should one day take +her to his home, a loved and honoured wife. His impulse, when her name +passed the Prince's lips, was to draw his sword, for he would have called +an emperor to account; but presently he saw the real meaning of the +speech: that the Prince would marry her that night." + +Here the story-teller paused again, and Pierre said softly, inquiringly: + +"You began to speak in your own way, and you've come to another way--like +going from an almanac to the Mass." + +The other smiled. "That's so. I've heard it told by old Shearton at +King's House, who speaks as if he'd stepped out of Shakespeare, and +somehow I seem to hear him talking, and I tell it as he told it last year +to the governor of the Company. Besides, I've listened these seven years +to his style." + +"It's a strange beginning--unwritten history of England," said Sir Duke +musingly. + +"You shall hear stranger things yet," answered Adderley. "John York +could hardly believe it at first, for the thought of such a thing never +had place in his mind. Besides, the Prince knew how he had looked upon +the lady, and he could not have thought his comrade would come in between +him and his happiness. Perhaps it was the difficulty, adding spice to +the affair, that sent the Prince to the appeal of private marriage to win +the lady, and John York always held that he loved her truly then, the +first and only real affection of his life. The lady--who can tell what +won her over from the honest gentleman to the faithless prince? That +soul of vanity which wraps about the real soul of every woman fell down +at last before the highest office in the land, and the gifted bearer of +the office. But the noble spirit in her brought him to offer marriage, +when he might otherwise have offered, say, a barony. There is a record +of that and more in John York's Memoirs which I will tell you, for they +have settled in my mind like an old song, and I learned them long ago. +I give you John York's words written by his own hands: + +"'I did not think when I beheld thee last, dearest flower of the world's +garden, that I should see thee bloom in that wide field, rank with the +sorrows of royal favour. How did my foolish eyes fill with tears when I +watched thee, all rose and gold in thy cheeks and hair, the light falling +on thee through the chapel window, putting thy pure palm into my +prince's, swearing thy life away, selling the very blossoms of earth's +orchards for the brier beauty of a hidden vineyard! I saw the flying +glories of thy cheeks, the halcyon weather of thy smile, the delicate +lifting of thy bosom, the dear gaiety of thy step, and, at that moment, +I mourned for thy sake that thou wert not the dullest wench in the land, +for then thou hadst been spared thy miseries, thou hadst been saved the +torture-boot of a lost love and a disacknowledged wifedom. Yet I could +not hide from me that thou wert happy at that great moment, when he swore +to love and cherish thee, till death you parted. + +"Ah, George, my prince, my king, how wickedly thou didst break thy vows +with both of us who loved thee well, through good and ill report--for +they spake evil of thee, George; ay, the meanest of thy subjects spake +lightly of their king--when with that sweet soul secretly hid away in +the farthest corner of thy kingdom, thou soughtst divorce from thy later +Caroline, whom thou, unfaithful, didst charge with infidelity. When, at +last, thou didst turn again to the partner of thy youth, thy true wife in +the eyes of God, it was too late. Thou didst promise me that thou +wouldst never take another wife, never put our dear heart away, though +she could not--after our miserable laws--bear thee princes. Thou didst +break thy promise, yet she forgave thee, and I forgave thee, for well we +knew that thou wouldst pay a heavy reckoning, and that in the hour when +thou shouldst cry to us we might not come to thee; that in the days when +age and sorrow and vast troubles should oppress thee, thou wouldst long +for the true hearts who loved thee for thyself and not for aught thou +wudst give, or aught that thou wert, save as a man. + +"'When thou didst proclaim thy purpose to take Caroline to wife, I +pleaded with thee, I was wroth with thee. Thy one plea was succession. +Succession! Succession! What were a hundred dynasties beside that +precious life, eaten by shame and sorrow? It were easy for others, not +thy children, to come after thee, to rule as well as thee, as must even +now be the case, for thou hast no lawful child save that one in the +loneliest corner of thy English vineyard--alack! alack! I warned thee +George, I pleaded, and thou didst drive me out with words ill-suited to +thy friend who loved thee. + +"'I did not fear thee, I would have forced thee to thy knees or made thee +fight me, had not some good spirit cried to my heart that thou wert her +husband, and that we both had loved thee. I dared not listen to the +brutal thing thou hintedst at--that now I might fatten where I had +hungered. Thou hadst to answer for the baseness of that thought to the +King of kings, when thou wentest forth alone, no subject, courtier, +friend, wife, or child to do thee service, journeying--not en prince, +George; no, not en prince! but as a naked soul to God. + +"'Thou saidst to me: "Get thee gone, John York, where I shall no more see +thee." And when I returned, "Wouldst thou have me leave thy country, +sir?" thou answeredst: "Blow thy quarrelsome soul to the stars where my +farthest bugle cries." Then I said: "I go, sir, till thou callest me +again--and after; but not till thou hast honoured the child of thy honest +wedlock; till thou hast secured thy wife to the end of her life against +all manner of trouble save the shame of thy disloyalty." There was no +more for me to do, for my deep love itself forbade my staying longer +within reach of the noble deserted soul. And so I saw the chastened +glory of her face no more, nor evermore beheld her perfectness.'" + +Adderley paused once more, and, after refilling his pipe in silence, +continued: + +"That was the heart of the thing. His soul sickened of the rank world, +as he called it, and he came out to the Hudson's Bay country, leaving his +estates in care of his nephew, but taking many stores and great chests of +clothes and a shipload of furniture, instruments of music, more than a +thousand books, some good pictures, and great stores of wine. Here he +came and stayed, an officer of the Company, building King's House, and +filling it with all the fine things he had brought with him, making in +this far north a little palace in the wilderness. Here he lived, his +great heart growing greater in this wide sinewy world, King's House a +place of pilgrimage for all the Company's men in the north; a noble +gentleman in a sweet exile, loving what he could no more, what he did no +more, see. + +"Twice a year he went to that point yonder and blew this bugle, no man +knew why or wherefore, year in, year out, till 1817. Then there came a +letter to him with great seals, which began: 'John York, John York, +where art thou gone, John York?' There followed a score of sorrowful +sentences, full of petulance, too, for it was as John York foretold, his +prince longed for the 'true souls' whom he had cast off. But he called +too late, for the neglected wife died from the shock of her prince's +longing message to her, and when, by the same mail, John York knew that, +he would not go back to England to the King. But twice every year he +went to yonder point and spoke out the King's words to him: 'John York, +John York, where art thou gone, John York?' and gave the words of his own +letter in reply: 'King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the +trail of thy bugles.' To this he added three calls of the bugle, as you +have heard." + +Adderley handed the bugle to Lawless, who looked at it with deep interest +and passed it on to Pierre. "When he died," Adderley continued, "he left +the house, the fittings, and the stores to the officers of the Company +who should be stationed there, with a sum of money yearly, provided that +twice in twelve months the bugle should be blown as you have heard it, +and those words called out." + +"Why did he do that?" asked Lawless, nodding towards the point. + +"Why do they swing the censers at the Mass?" interjected Pierre. "Man +has signs for memories, and one man seeing another's sign will remember +his own." + +"You stay because you like it--at King's House?" asked Lawless of +Adderley. + +The other stretched himself lazily to the fire and, "I am at home," he +said. "I have no cares. I had all there was of that other world; I've +not had enough of this. You'll come with me to King's House to-morrow?" +he added. + +To their quick assent he rejoined: "You'll never want to leave. You'll +stay on." + +To this Lawless replied, shaking his head: "I have a wife and child in +England." + +But Pierre did not reply. He lifted the bugle, mutely asking a question +of Adderley, who as mutely replied, and then, with it in his hand, left +the other two beside the fire. + +A few minutes later they heard, with three calls of the bugle from the +point afterwards, Pierre's voice: "John York, John York, where art thou +gone, John York?" + +Then came the reply: + +"King of my heart, king of my heart, I am out on the trail of thy +bugles." + + + + + + +THE SPOIL OF THE PUMA + +Just at the point where the Peace River first hugs the vast outpost hills +of the Rockies, before it hurries timorously on, through an unexplored +region, to Fort St. John, there stood a hut. It faced the west, and was +built half-way up Clear Mountain. In winter it had snows above it and +below it; in summer it had snow above it and a very fair stretch of trees +and grass, while the river flowed on the same, winter and summer. It was +a lonely country. Travelling north, you would have come to the Turnagain +River; west, to the Frying Pan Mountains; south, to a goodly land. But +from the hut you had no outlook towards the south; your eye came plump +against a hard lofty hill, like a wall between heaven and earth. It is +strange, too, that, when you are in the far north, you do not look +towards the south until the north turns an iron hand upon you and refuses +the hospitality of food and fire; your eyes are drawn towards the Pole by +that charm--deadly and beautiful--for which men have given up three +points of the compass, with their pleasures and ease, to seek a grave +solitude, broken only by the beat of a musk-ox's hoofs, the long breath +of the caribou, or the wild cry of the puma. + +Sir Duke Lawless had felt this charm, and had sworn that one day he would +again leave his home in Devon and his house in Pont Street, and, finding +Pierre, Shon M'Gann, and others of his old comrades, together they would +travel into those austere yet pleasant wilds. He kept his word, found +Shon M'Gann, and on an autumn day of a year not so long ago lounged in +this hut on Clear Mountain. They had had three months of travel and +sport, and were filled, but not sated, with the joy of the hunter. They +were very comfortable, for their host, Pourcette, the French Canadian, +had fire and meat in plenty, and, if silent, was attentive to their +comfort--a little, black-bearded, grey-headed man, with heavy brows over +small vigilant eyes, deft with his fingers, and an excellent sportsman, +as could be told from the skins heaped in all the corners of the large +hut. + +The skins were not those of mere foxes or martens or deer, but of +mountain lions and grizzlies. There were besides many soft, tiger-like +skins, which Sir Duke did not recognise. He kept looking at them, and at +last went over and examined one. + +"What's this, Monsieur Pourcette?" he said, feeling it as it lay on the +top of the pile. + +The little man pushed the log on the fireplace with his moccasined foot +before he replied: "Of a puma, m'sieu'." + +Sir Duke smoothed it with his hand. "I didn't know there were pumas +here." + +"Faith, Sir Duke--" + +Sir Duke Lawless turned on Shon quickly. "You're forgetting again, Shon. +There's no 'Sir Dukes' between us. What you were to me years ago on the +wally-by-track and the buffalo-trail, you are now, and I'm the same also: +M'Gann and Lawless, and no other." + +"Well, then, Lawless, it's true enough as he says it, for I've seen more +than wan skin brought in, though I niver clapped eye on the beast alive. +There's few men go huntin' them av their own free will, not more than +they do grizzlies; but, bedad, this French gintleman has either the luck +o' the world, or the gift o' that man ye tould me of, that slew the wild +boars in anciency. Look at that, now: there's thirty or forty puma- +skins, and I'd take my oath there isn't another man in the country that's +shot half that in his lifetime." + +Pourcette's eyes were on the skins, not on the men, and he did not appear +to listen. He sat leaning forward, with a strange look on his face. +Presently he got up, came over, and stroked the skins softly. A queer +chuckling noise came from his throat. + +"It was good sport?" asked Lawless, feeling a new interest in him. + +"The grandest sport--but it is not so easy," answered the old man. "The +grizzly comes on you bold and strong; you know your danger right away, +and have it out. So. But the puma comes--God, how the puma comes!" He +broke off, his eyes burning bright under his bushy brows and his body +arranging itself into an attitude of expectation and alertness. + +"You have travelled far. The sun goes down. You build a fire and cook +your meat, and then good tea and the tabac. It is ver' fine. You hear +the loon crying on the water, or the last whistle of the heron up the +pass. The lights in the sky come out and shine through a thin mist-- +there is nothing like that mist, it is so fine and soft. Allons. You +are sleepy. You bless the good God. You stretch pine branches, wrap in +your blanket, and lie down to sleep. If it is winter and you have a +friend, you lie close. It is all quiet. As you sleep, something comes. +It slides along the ground on its belly, like a snake. It is a pity if +you have not ears that feel--the whole body as ears. For there is a +swift lunge, a snarl--ah, you should hear it! the thing has you by the +throat, and there is an end!" + +The old man had acted all the scenes: a sidelong glance, a little +gesture, a movement of the body, a quick, harsh breath--without emphatic +excitement, yet with a reality and force that fascinated his two +listeners. When he paused, Shon let go a long breath, and Lawless looked +with keen inquiry at their entertainer. This almost unnatural, yet +quiet, intensity had behind it something besides the mere spirit of the +sportsman. Such exhibitions of feeling generally have an unusual +personal interest to give them point and meaning. + +"Yes, that's wonderful, Pourcette," he said; "but that's when the puma +has things its own way. How is it when these come off?" He stroked the +soft furs under his hand. + +The man laughed, yet without a sound--the inward, stealthy laugh, as from +a knowledge wicked in its very suggestiveness. His eyes ran from Lawless +to Shon, and back again. He put his hand on his mouth, as though for +silence, stole noiselessly over to the wall, took down his gun quietly, +and turned round. Then he spoke softly: + +"To kill the puma, you must watch--always watch. You will see his yellow +eyes sometimes in a tree: you must be ready before he springs. You will +hear his breath at night as you pretend to sleep, and you wait till you +see his foot steal out of the shadow--then you have him. From a mountain +wall you watch in the morning, and, when you see him, you follow, and +follow, and do not rest till you have found him. You must never miss +fire, for he has great strength and a mad tooth. But when you have got +him, he is worth all. You cannot eat the grizzly--he is too thick and +coarse; but the puma--well, you had him from the pot to-night. Was he +not good?" + +Lawless's brows ran up in surprise. Shon spoke quickly: + +"Heaven above!" he burst out. "Was it puma we had betune the teeth? +And what's puma but an almighty cat? Sure, though, it wint as tinder +as pullets, for all that--but I wish you hadn't tould us." + +The old man stood leaning on his gun, his chin on his hands, as they +covered the muzzle, his eyes fixed on something in his memory, the vision +of incidents he had lived or seen. + +Lawless went over to the fire and relit his pipe. Shon followed him. +They both watched Pourcette. "D'ye think he's mad?" asked Shon in a +whisper. Lawless shook his head: "Mad? No. But there's more in this +puma-hunting than appears. How long has he lived here, did he say?" + +"Four years; and, durin' that time, yours and mine are the only white +faces he has seen, except one." + +"Except one. Well, whose was the one? That might be interesting. Maybe +there's a story in that." + +"Faith, Lawless, there's a story worth the hearin', I'm thinkin', to +every white man in this country. For the three years I was in the +mounted police, I could count a story for all the days o' the calendar +--and not all o' them would make you happy to hear." + +Pourcette turned round to them. He seemed to be listening to Shon's +words. Going to the wall, he hung up the rifle; then he came to the fire +and stood holding out his hands to the blaze. He did not look in the +least mad, but like a man who was dominated by some one thought, more +or less weird. Short and slight, and a little bent, but more from habit +--the habit of listening and watching--than from age, his face had a +stern kind of earnestness and loneliness, and nothing at all of insanity. + +Presently Lawless went to a corner and from his kit drew forth a flask. +The old man saw, and immediately brought out a wooden cup. There were +two on the shelf, and Shon pointed to the other. Pourcette took no +notice. Shon went over to get it, but Pourcette laid a hand on his arm: +"Not that." + +"For ornamint!" said Shon, laughing, and then his eyes were arrested by +a suit of buckskin and a cap of beaver, hanging on the wall. He turned +them over, and then suddenly drew back his hand, for he saw in the back +of the jacket a knife-slit. There was blood also on the buckskin. + +"Holy Mary!" he said, and retreated. Lawless had not noticed; he was +pouring out the liquor. He had handed the cup first to Pourcette, who +raised it towards a gun hung above the fireplace, and said something +under his breath. + +"A dramatic little fellow," thought Lawless; "the spirit of his +forefathers--a good deal of heart, a little of the poseur." + +Then hearing Shon's exclamation, he turned. + +"It's an ugly sight," said Shon, pointing to the jacket. They both +looked at Pourcette, expecting him to speak. The old man reached to the +coat, and, turning it so that the cut and the blood were hid, ran his +hand down it caressingly. "Ah, poor Jo! poor Jo Gordineer!" he said; +then he came over once more to the fire, sat down, and held out his hands +to the fire, shaking his head. + +"For God's sake, Lawless, give me a drink!" said Shon. Their eyes met, +and there was the same look in the faces of both. When Shon had drunk, +he said: "So, that's what's come to our old friend, Jo: dead--killed or +murdered--" + +"Don't speak so loud," said Lawless. "Let us get the story from him +first." + +Years before, when Shon M'Gann and Pierre and Lawless had sojourned in +the Pipi Valley, Jo Gordineer had been with them, as stupid and true a +man as ever drew in his buckle in a hungry land, or let it out to munch +corn and oil. When Lawless returned to find Shon and others of his +companions, he had asked for Gordineer. But not Shon nor anyone else +could tell aught of him; he had wandered north to outlying goldfields, +and then had disappeared completely. But there, as it would seem, his +coat and cap hung, and his rifle, dust-covered, kept guard over the fire. + +Shon went over to the coat, did as Pourcette had done, and said: "Is it +gone y'are, Jo, wid your slow tongue and your big heart? Wan by wan the +lads are off." + +Pourcette, without any warning, began speaking, but in a very quiet tone +at first, as if unconscious of the others: + +"Poor Jo Gordineer! Yes, he is gone. He was my friend--so tall, and +such a hunter! We were at the Ding Dong goldfields together. When luck +went bad, I said to him: 'Come, we will go where there is plenty of wild +meat, and a summer more beautiful than in the south.' I did not want to +part from him, for once, when some miner stole my claim, and I fought, he +stood by me. But in some things he was a little child. That was from +his big heart. Well, he would go, he said; and we came away." + +He suddenly became silent; and shook his head, and spoke under his +breath. + +"Yes," said Lawless quietly, "you went away. What then?" + +He looked up quickly, as though just aware of their presence, and +continued: + +"Well, the other followed, as I said, and--" + +"No, Pourcette," interposed Lawless, "you didn't say. Who was the other +that followed?" + +The old man looked at him gravely, and a little severely, and continued: + +"As I said, Gawdor followed--he and an Indian. Gawdor thought we were +going for gold, because I had said I knew a place in the north where +there was gold in a river--I know the place, but that is no matter. We +did not go for gold just then. Gawdor hated Jo Gordineer. There was a +half-breed girl. She was fine to look at. She would have gone to +Gordineer if he had beckoned, any time; but he waited--he was very slow, +except with his finger on a gun; he waited too long. + +"Gawdor was mad for the girl. He knew why her feet came slow to the door +when he knocked. He would have quarrelled with Jo, if he had dared; +Gordineer was too quick a shot. He would have killed him from behind; +but it was known in the camp that he was no friend of Gordineer, and it +was not safe." + +Again Pourcette was silent. Lawless put on his knee a new pipe, filled +with tobacco. The little man took it, lighted it, and smoked on in +silence for a time undisturbed. Shon broke the silence, by a whisper to +Lawless: + +"Jo was a quiet man, as patient as a priest; but when his blood came up, +there was trouble in the land. Do you remimber whin--" + +Lawless interrupted him and motioned towards Pourcette. The old man, +after a few puffs, held the pipe on his knee, disregarding it. Lawless +silently offered him some more whisky, but he shook his head. Presently, +he again took up the thread: + +"Bien, we travelled slow up through the smoky river country, and beyond +into a wild land. We had bully sport as we went. Sometimes I heard +shots far away behind us; but Gordineer said it was my guess, for we saw +nobody. But I had a feeling. Never mind. At last we come to the Peace +River. It was in the early autumn like this, when the land is full of +comfort. What is there like it? Nothing. The mountains have colours +like a girl's eyes; the smell of the trees is sweet like a child's +breath, and the grass feels for the foot and lifts it with a little soft +spring. We said we could live here for ever. We built this house high +up, as you see, first, because it is good to live high--it puts life in +the blood; and, as Gordineer said, it is noble to look far over the +world, every time your house-door is open, or the parchment is down from +the window. We killed wapiti and caribou without number, and cached them +for our food. We caught fish in the river, and made tea out of the brown +berry--it is very good. We had flour, a little, which we had brought +with us, and I went to Fort St. John and got more. Since then, down in +the valley, I have wheat every summer; for the Chinook winds blow across +the mountains and soften the bitter cold. + +"Well, for that journey to Fort St. John. When I got back I found Gawdor +with Gordineer. He said he had come north to hunt. His Indian had left, +and he had lost his way. Gordineer believed him. He never lied himself. +I said nothing, but watched. After a time he asked where the gold-field +was. I told him, and he started away--it was about fifty miles to the +north. He went, and on his way back he come here. He say he could not +find the place, and was going south. I know he lied. At this time I saw +that Gordineer was changed. He was slow in the head, and so, when he +began thinking up here, it made him lonely. It is always in a fine land +like this, where game is plenty, and the heart dances for joy in your +throat, and you sit by the fire--that you think of some woman who would +be glad to draw in and tie the strings of the tent-curtain, or fasten the +latch of the door upon you two alone." + +Perhaps some memory stirred within the old man, other than that of his +dead comrade, for he sighed, muffled his mouth in his beard, and then +smiled in a distant way at the fire. The pure truth of what he said came +home to Shon M'Gann and Sir Duke Lawless; for both, in days gone by, had +sat at camp-fires in silent plains, and thought upon women from whom they +believed they were parted for ever, yet who were only kept from them for +a time, to give them happier days. They were thinking of these two women +now. They scarcely knew how long they sat there thinking. Time passes +swiftly when thoughts are cheerful, or are only tinged with the soft +melancholy of a brief separation. Memory is man's greatest friend and +worst enemy. + +At last the old man continued: "I saw the thing grew on him. He was not +sulky, but he stare much in the fire at night. In the daytime he was +differen'. A hunter thinks only of his sport. Gawdor watched him. +Gordineer's hand was steady; his nerve was all right. I have seen him +stand still till a grizzly come within twice the length of his gun. Then +he would twist his mouth, and fire into the mortal spot. Once we were +out in the Wide Wing pass. We had never had such a day. Gordineer make +grand shots, better than my own; and men have said I can shoot like the +devil--ha! ha!" He chuckled to himself noiselessly, and said in a +whisper "Twenty grizzlies, and fifty pumas!" + +Then he rubbed his hands softly on his knees, and spoke aloud again: +"Ici, I was proud of him. We were standing together on a ledge of rock. +Gawdor was not far away. Gawdor was a poor hunter, and I knew he was +wild at Gordineer's great luck.... A splendid bull-wapiti come out on a +rock across the gully. It was a long shot. I did not think Gordineer +could make it; I was not sure that I could--the wind was blowing and the +range was long. But he draw up his gun like lightning, and fire all at +once. The bull dropped clean over the cliff, and tumbled dead upon the +rocks below. It was fine. But, then, Gordineer slung his gun under his +arm, and say: 'That is enough. I am going to the hut.' + +"He went away. That night he did not talk. The next morning, when I +say, 'We will be off again to the pass,' he shake his head. He would +not go. He would shoot no more, he said. I understood: it was the girl. +He was wide awake at last. Gawdor understanded also. He know that +Gordineer would go to the south--to her. + +"I was sorry; but it was no use. Gawdor went with me to the pass. When +we come back, Jo was gone. On a bit of birch-bark he had put where he +was going, and the way he would take. He said he would come back to me +--ah, the brave comrade! Gawdor say nothing, but his looks were black. +I had a feeling. I sat up all night, smoking. I was not afraid, but I +know Gawdor had found the valley of gold, and he might put a knife in me, +because to know of such a thing alone is fine. Just at dawn, he got up +and go out. He did not come back. + +"I waited, and at last went to the pass. In the afternoon, just as I was +rounding the corner of a cliff, there was a shot--then another. The +first went by my head; the second caught me along the ribs, but not to +great hurt. Still, I fell from the shock, and lost some blood. It was +Gawdor; he thought he had killed me. + +"When I come to myself I bound up the little furrow in the flesh, and +start away. I know that Gawdor would follow Gordineer. I follow him, +knowing the way he must take. I have never forget the next night. +I had to travel hard, and I track him by his fires and other things. +When sunset come, I do not stop. I was in a valley, and I push on. +There was a little moon. At last I saw a light ahead-a camp-fire, I +know. I was weak, and could have dropped; but a dread was on me. + +"I come to the fire. I saw a man lying near it. Just as I saw him, he +was trying to rise. But, as he did so, something sprang out of the +shadow upon him, at his throat. I saw him raise his hand, and strike it +with a knife. The thing let go, and then I fire--but only scratched, I +think. It was a puma. It sprang away again, into the darkness. I ran +to the man, and raised him. It was my friend. He looked up at me and +shake his head. He was torn at the throat.... But there was something +else--a wound in the back. He was stooping over the fire when he was +stabbed, and he fell. He saw that it was Gawdor. He had been left for +dead, as I was. Nom de Dieu! just when I come and could have save him, +the puma come also. It is the best men who have such luck. I have seen +it often. I used to wonder they did not curse God." + +He crossed himself and mumbled something. Lawless rose, and walked up +and down the room once or twice, pulling at his beard and frowning. His +eyes were wet. Shon kept blowing into his closed hand and blinking at +the fire. Pourcette got up and took down the gun from the chimney. He +brushed off the dust with his coat-sleeve, and fondled it, shaking his +head at it a little. As he began to speak again, Lawless sat down. + +"Now I know why they do not curse. Something curses for them. Jo give +me a word for her, and say 'Well, it is all right; but I wish I had +killed the puma.' There was nothing more. . . . I followed Gawdor +for days. I know that he would go and get someone, and go back to the +gold. I thought at last I had missed him; but no. I had made up my mind +what to do when I found him. One night, just as the moon was showing +over the hills, I come upon him. I was quiet as a puma. I have a stout +cord in my pocket, and another about my body. Just as he was stooping +over the fire, as Gordineer did, I sprang upon him, clasping him about +the neck, and bringing him to the ground. He could not get me off. I am +small, but I have a grip. Then, too, I had one hand at his throat. It +was no use to struggle. The cord and a knife were in my teeth. It was a +great trick, but his breath was well gone, and I fastened his hands. It +was no use to struggle. I tied his feet and legs. Then I carried him to +a tree and bound him tight. I unfastened his hands again and tied them +round the tree. Then I built a great fire not far away. He begged at +first and cried. But I was hard. He got wild, and at last when I leave +him he cursed! It was like nothing I ever heard. He was a devil. . . +I come back after I have carry the message to the poor girl--it is a sad +thing to see the first great grief of the young! Gawdor was not there. +The pumas and others had been with him. + +"There was more to do. I wanted to kill that puma which set its teeth in +the throat of my friend. I hunted the woods where it had happened, +beating everywhere, thinking that, perhaps, it was dead. There was not +much blood on the leaves, so I guessed that it had not died. I hunted +from that spot, and killed many--many. I saw that they began to move +north. At last I got back here. From here I have hunted and killed them +slow; but never that one with a wound in the shoulder from Jo's knife. +Still, I can wait. There is nothing like patience for the hunter and +for the man who would have blood for blood." + +He paused, and Lawless spoke. "And when you have killed that puma, +Pourcette--if you ever do-what then?" + +Pourcette fondled the gun, then rose and hung it up again before he +replied. + +"Then I will go to Fort St. John, to the girl--she is there with her +father--and sell all the skins to the factor, and give her the money." +He waved his hand round the room. "There are many skins here, but I have +more cached not far away. Once a year I go to the Fort for flour and +bullets. A dog-team and a bois-brule bring them, and then I am alone as +before. When all that is done I will come back." + +"And then, Pourcette?" said Shon. + +"Then I will hang that one skin over the chimney where his gun is--and go +out and kill more pumas. What else can one do? When I stop killing I +shall be killed. A million pumas and their skins are not worth the life +of my friend." + +Lawless looked round the room, at the wooden cup, the gun, the +bloodstained clothes on the wall, and the skins. He got up, came over, +and touched Pourcette on the shoulder. + +"Little man," he said, "give it up, and come with me. Come to Fort St. +John, sell the skins, give the money to the girl, and then let us travel +to the Barren Grounds together, and from there to the south country +again. You will go mad up here. You have killed enough--Gawdor and many +pumas. If Jo could speak, he would say, Give it up. I knew Jo. He was +my good friend before he was yours--mine and M'Gann's here--and we +searched for him to travel with us. He would have done so, I think, for +we had sport and trouble of one kind and another together. And he would +have asked you to come also. Well, do so, little man. We haven't told +you our names. I am Sir Duke Lawless, and this is Shon M'Gann." + +Pourcette nodded: "I do not know how it come to me, but I was sure from +the first you are his friends. He speak often of you and of two others +--where are they?" + +Lawless replied, and, at the name of Pretty Pierre, Shon hid his forehead +in his hand, in a troubled way. "And you will come with us," said +Lawless, "away from this loneliness?" + +"It is not lonely," was the reply. "To hear the thrum of the pigeon, the +whistle of the hawk, the chatter of the black squirrel, and the long cry +of the eagle, is not lonely. Then, there is the river and the pines--all +music; and for what the eye sees, God has been good; and to kill pumas is +my joy. . . . So, I cannot go. These hills are mine. Few strangers +come, and none stop but me. Still, to-morrow or any day, I will show you +the way to the valley where the gold is. Perhaps riches is there, +perhaps not, you shall find." + +Lawless saw that it was no use to press the matter. The old man had but +one idea, and nothing could ever change it. Solitude fixes our hearts +immovably on things--call it madness, what you will. In busy life we +have no real or lasting dreams, no ideals. We have to go to the primeval +hills and the wild plains for them. When we leave the hills and the +plains, we lose them again. Shon was, however, for the valley of gold. +He was a poor man, and it would be a joyful thing for him if one day he +could empty ample gold into his wife's lap. Lawless was not greedy, but +he and good gold were not at variance. + +"See," said Shon, "the valley's the thing. We can hunt as we go, and if +there's gold for the scrapin', why, there y'are--fill up and come again. +If not, divil the harm done. So here's thumbs up to go, say I. But I +wish, Lawless, I wish that I'd niver known how Jo wint off, an' I wish +we were all t'gither agin, as down in the Pipi Valley." + +"There's nothing stands in this world, Shon, but the faith of comrades +and the truth of good women. The rest hangs by a hair. I'll go to the +valley with you. It's many a day since I washed my luck in a gold-pan." + +"I will take you there," said Pourcette, suddenly rising, and, with +shy abrupt motions grasping their hands and immediately letting them +go again. "I will take you to-morrow." Then he spread skins upon the +floor, put wood upon the fire, and the three were soon asleep. + +The next morning, just as the sun came laboriously over the white peak of +a mountain, and looked down into the great gulch beneath the hut, the +three started. For many hours they crept along the side of the mountain, +then came slowly down upon pine-crested hills, and over to where a small +plain stretched out. It was Pourcette's little farm. Its position was +such that it caught the sun always, and was protected from the north and +east winds. Tall shafts of Indian corn with their yellow tassels were +still standing, and the stubble of the field where the sickle had been +showed in the distance like a carpet of gold. It seemed strange to +Lawless that this old man beside him should be thus peaceful in his +habits, the most primitive and arcadian of farmers, and yet one whose +trade was blood--whose one purpose in life was destruction and vengeance. + +They pushed on. Towards the end of the day they came upon a little herd +of caribou, and had excellent sport. Lawless noticed that Pourcette +seemed scarcely to take any aim at all, so swift and decisive was his +handling of the gun. They skinned the deer and cached them, and took up +the journey again. For four days they travelled and hunted alternately. +Pourcette had shot two mountain lions, but they had seen no pumas. + +On the morning of the fifth day they came upon the valley where the gold +was. There was no doubt about it. A beautiful little stream ran through +it, and its bed was sprinkled with gold--a goodly sight to a poor man +like Shon, interesting enough to Lawless. For days, while Lawless and +Pourcette hunted, Shon laboured like a galley-slave, making the little +specks into piles, and now and again crowning a pile with a nugget. The +fever of the hunter had passed from him, and another fever was on him. +The others urged him to come away. The winter would soon be hard on +them; he must go, and he and Lawless would return in the spring. + +Prevailing on him at last, they started back to Clear Mountain. The +first day Shon was abstracted. He carried the gold he had gathered in a +bag wound about his body. It was heavy, and he could not travel fast. +One morning, Pourcette, who had been off in the hills, came to say that +he had sighted a little herd of wapiti. Shon had fallen and sprained his +arm the evening before (gold is heavy to carry), and he did not go with +the others. He stayed and dreamed of his good fortune, and of his home. +In the late afternoon he lay down in the sun beside the camp-fire and +fell asleep from much thinking. Lawless and Pourcette had little +success. The herd had gone before they arrived. They beat the hills, +and turned back to camp at last, without fret, like good sportsmen. At a +point they separated, to come down upon the camp at different angles, in +the hope of still getting a shot. The camp lay exposed upon a platform +of the mountain. + +Lawless came out upon a ledge of rock opposite the camp, a gulch lying +between. He looked across. He was in the shadow, the other wall of the +gulch was in the sun. The air was incomparably clear and fresh, with an +autumnal freshness. Everything stood out distinct and sharply outlined, +nothing flat or blurred. He saw the camp, and the fire, with the smoke +quivering up in a diffusing blue column, Shon lying beside it. He leaned +upon his rifle musingly. The shadows of the pines were blue and cold, +but the tops of them were burnished with the cordial sun, and a glacier- +field, somehow, took on a rose and violet light, reflected, maybe, from +the soft-complexioned sky. He drew in a long breath of delight, and +widened his line of vision. + +Suddenly, something he saw made him lurch backward. At an angle in +almost equal distance from him and Shon, upon a small peninsula of rock, +a strange thing was happening. Old Pourcette was kneeling, engaged with +his moccasin. Behind him was the sun, against which he was abruptly +defined, looking larger than usual. Clear space and air soft with colour +were about him. Across this space, on a little sloping plateau near him, +there crept an animal. It seemed to Lawless that he could see the lithe +stealthiness of its muscles and the ripple of its skin. But that was +imagination, because he was too far away. He cried out, and swung his +gun shoulderwards in desperation. But, at the moment, Pourcette turned +sharply round, saw his danger, caught his gun, and fired as the puma +sprang. There had been no chance for aim, and the beast was only +wounded. It dropped upon the man. He let the gun fall; it rolled and +fell over the cliff. Then came a scene, wicked in its peril to +Pourcette, for whom no aid could come, though two men stood watching the +great fight--Shon M'Gann, awake now, and Lawless--with their guns silent +in their hands. They dare not fire, for fear of injuring the man, and +they could not reach him in time to be of help. + +There against the weird solitary sky the man and the puma fought. When +the animal dropped on him, Pourcette caught it by the throat with both +hands, and held back its fangs; but its claws were furrowing the flesh of +his breast and legs. His long arms were of immense strength, and though +the pain of his torn flesh was great he struggled grandly with the beast, +and bore it away, from his body. As he did so he slightly changed the +position of one hand. It came upon a welt-a scar. When he felt that, +new courage and strength seemed given him. He gave a low growl like an +animal, and then, letting go one hand, caught at the knife in his belt. +As he did so the puma sprang away from him, and crouched upon the rock, +making ready for another leap. Lawless and Shon could see its tail +curving and beating. But now, to their astonishment, the man was the +aggressor. He was filled with a fury which knows nothing of fear. The +welt his fingers had felt burned them. + +He came slowly upon the puma. Lawless could see the hard glitter of his +knife. The puma's teeth sawed together, its claws picked at the rocks, +its body curved for a spring. The man sprang first, and ran the knife +in; but not into a mortal corner. Once more they locked. The man's +fingers were again at the puma's throat, and they swayed together, the +claws of the beast making surface havoc. But now as they stood up, to +the eyes of the fearful watchers inextricably mixed, the man lunged again +with his knife, and this time straight into the heart of the murderer. +The puma loosened, quivered, fell back dead. The man rose to his feet +with a cry, and his hands stretched above his head, as it were in a kind +of ecstasy. Shon forgot his gold and ran; Lawless hurried also. + +When the two men got to the spot they found Pourcette binding up his +wounds. He came to his feet, heedless of his hurts, and grasped their +hands. "Come, come, my friends, and see," he cried. + +He pulled forward the loose skin on the puma's breast and showed them the +scar of a knife-wound above the one his own knife had made. + +"I've got the other murderer," he said; "Gordineer's knife went in here. +Sacre, but it is good!" + +Pourcette's flesh needed little medicine; he did not feel his pain and +stiffness. When they reached Clear Mountain, bringing with them the skin +which was to hang above the fireplace, Pourcette prepared to go to Fort +St. John, as he had said he would, to sell all the skins and give the +proceeds to the girl. + +"When that's done," said Lawless, "you will have no reason for staying +here. If you will come with us after, we will go to the Fort with you. +We three will then come back in the spring to the valley of gold for +sport and riches." + +He spoke lightly, yet seriously too. The old man shook his head. +"I have thought," he said. "I cannot go to the south. I am a hunter +now, nothing more. I have been long alone; I do not wish for change. +I shall remain at Clear Mountain when these skins have gone to Fort St. +John, and if you come to me in the spring or at any time, my door will +open to you, and I will share all with you. Gordineer was a good man. +You are good men. I'll remember you, but I can't go with you--no. + +"Some day you would leave me to go to the women who wait for you, and then +I should be alone again. I will not change--vraiment!" + +On the morning they left, he took Jo Gordineer's cup from the shelf, and +from a hidden place brought out a flask half filled with liquor. He +poured out a little in the cup gravely, and handed it to Lawless, but +Lawless gave it back to him. + +"You must drink from it," he said, "not me." + +He held out the cup of his own flask. When each of the three had a +share, the old man raised his long arm solemnly, and said in a tone so +gentle that the others hardly recognised his voice: "To a lost comrade!" +They drank in silence. + +"A little gentleman!" said Lawless, under his breath. When they were +ready to start, Lawless said to him at the last: "What will you do here, +comrade, as the days go on?" + +"There are pumas in the mountains," he replied. They parted from him +upon the ledge where the great fight had occurred, and travelled into the +east. Turning many times, they saw him still standing there. At a point +where they must lose sight of him, they looked for the last time. He was +alone with his solitary hills, leaning on his rifle. They fired two +shots into the air. They saw him raise his rifle, and two faint reports +came in reply. He became again immovable: as much a part of those hills +as the shining glacier; never to leave them. + +In silence the two rounded the cliff, and saw him no more. + + + + + +THE TRAIL OF THE SUN DOGS + +Swell, you see," said Jacques Parfaite, as he gave Whiskey Wine, the +leading dog, a cut with the whip and twisted his patois to the uses of +narrative, "he has been alone there at the old Fort for a long time. I +remember when I first see him. It was in the summer. The world smell +sweet if you looked this way or that. If you drew in your breath quick +from the top of a hill you felt a great man. Ridley, the chief trader, +and myself have come to the Fort on our way to the Mackenzie River. In +the yard of the Fort the grass have grown tall, and sprung in the cracks +under the doors and windows; the Fort have not been use for a long time. +Once there was plenty of buffalo near, and the caribou sometimes; but +they were all gone--only a few. The Indians never went that way, only +when the seasons were the best. The Company have close the Post; it did +not pay. Still, it was pleasant after a long tramp to come to even an +empty fort. We know dam' well there is food buried in the yard or under +the floor, and it would be droll to open the place for a day--Lost Man's +Tavern, we called it. Well--" + +"Well, what?" said Sir Duke Lawless, who had travelled up to the Barren +Grounds for the sake of adventure and game; and, with his old friend, +Shon M'Gann, had trusted himself to the excellent care of Jacques +Parfaite, the half-breed. + +Jacques cocked his head on one side and shook it wisely and mysteriously. +"Tres bien, we trailed through the long grass, pried open the shutters +and door, and went in. It is cool in the north of an evening, as you +know. We build a fire, and soon there is very fine times. Ridley pried +up the floor, and we found good things. Holy! but it was a feast. We +had a little rum also. As we talk and a great laugh swim round, there +come a noise behind us like shuffling feet. We got to our legs quick. +Mon Dieu, a strange sight! A man stand looking at us with something in +his face that make my fingers cold all at once--a look--well you would +think it was carved in stone--it never change. Once I was at Fort Garry; +the Church of St. Mary is there. They have a picture in it of the great +scoundrel Judas as he went to hang himself. Judas was a fool--what was +thirty dollars!--you give me hunder' to take you to the Barren Grounds. +Pah!" + +The half-breed chuckled, shook his head sagely, swore half-way through +his vocabulary at Whiskey Wine, gratefully received a pipe of tobacco +from Shon M'Gann, and continued: "He come in on us slow and still, and +push out long thin hands, the fingers bent like claws, towards the pot. +He was starving. Yes, it was so; but I nearly laugh. It was spring-- +a man is a fool to starve in the spring. But he was differen'. There +was a cause. The factor give him soup from the pot and a little rum. He +was mad for meat, but that would have kill him--yes. He did not look at +you like a man. + +"When you are starving, you are an animal. But there was something more +with this.--He made the flesh creep, he was so thin, and strange, and +sulky--eh, is that a word when the face looks dark and never smiles? So. +He would not talk. When we ask him where he come from, he points to the +north; when we ask him where he is going, he shake his head as he not +know. A man is mad not to know where he travel to up here; something +comes quick to him unless, and it is not good to die too soon. The +trader said, 'Come with us.' He shake his head, No. 'P'r'aps you want +to stay here,' said Ridley loud, showing his teeth all in a minute. He +nod. Then the trader laugh thick in his throat and give him more soup. +After, he try to make the man talk; but he was stubborn like that dirty +Whiskey Wine--ah, sacre bleu!" + +Whiskey Wine had his usual portion of whip and anathema before Jacques +again took up the thread. "It was no use. He would not talk. When the +trader get angry once more, he turned to me, and the look in his face +make me sorry. I swore--Ridley did not mind that, I was thick friends +with him. I say, 'Keep still. It is no good. He has had bad times. +He has been lost, and seen mad things. He will never be again like when +God make him.' Very well, I spoke true. He was like a sun dog." + +"What's that ye say, Parfaite?" said Shon--"a sun dog?" + +Sir Duke Lawless, puzzled, listened eagerly for the reply. + +The half-breed in delight ran before them, cracking his whip and jingling +the bells at his knees. "Ah, that's it! It is a name we have for some. +You do not know? It is easy. In the high-up country"--pointing north"-- +you see sometimes many suns. But it is not many after all; it is only +one; and the rest are the same as your face in looking-glasses--one, two, +three, plenty. You see?" + +"Yes," said Sir Duke, "reflections of the real sun." Parfaite tapped him +on the arm. "So: you have the thing. Well, this man is not himself--he +have left himself where he seen his bad times. It makes your flesh creep +sometimes when you see the sun dogs in the sky--this man did the same. +You shall see him tonight." + +Sir Duke looked at the little half-breed, and wondered that the product +of so crude a civilisation should be so little crude in his imagination. +"What happened?" he asked. + +"Nothing happened. But the man could not sleep. He sit before the fire, +his eyes moving here and there, and sometimes he shiver. Well, I watch +him. In the morning we leave him there, and he has been there ever +since--the only man at the Fort. The Indians do not go; they fear him; +but there is no harm in him. He is old now. In an hour we'll be there." + +The sun was hanging, with one shoulder up like a great red peering dwarf, +on the far side of a long hillock of stunted pines, when the three +arrived at the Fort. The yard was still as Parfaite had described it-- +full of rank grass, through which one path trailed to the open door. On +the stockade walls grass grew, as though where men will not live like men +Nature labours to smother. The shutters of the window were not open; +light only entered through narrow openings in them, made for the needs of +possible attacks by Indians in the far past. One would have sworn that +anyone dwelling there was more like the dead than the living. Yet it +had, too, something of the peace of the lonely graveyard. There was no +one in the Fort; but there were signs of life--skins piled here and +there, a few utensils, a bench, a hammock for food swung from the +rafters, a low fire burning in the chimney, and a rude spear stretched on +the wall. + +"Sure, the place gives you shivers!" said Shon. "Open go these windows. +Put wood on the fire, Parfaite; cook the meat that we've brought, and no +other, me boy; and whin we're filled wid a meal and the love o' God, +bring in your Lost Man, or Sun Dog, or whativer's he by name or nature." + +While Parfaite and Shon busied themselves, Lawless wandered out with his +gun, and, drawn on by the clear joyous air of the evening, walked along a +path made by the same feet that had travelled the yard of the Fort. He +followed it almost unconsciously at first, thinking of the strange +histories that the far north hoards in its fastnesses, wondering what +singular fate had driven the host of this secluded tavern--farthest from +the pleasant south country, nearest to the Pole--to stand, as it were, +a sentinel at the raw outposts of the world. He looked down at the trail +where he was walking with a kind of awe, which even his cheerful common +sense could not dismiss. + +He came to the top of a ridge on which were a handful of meagre trees. +Leaning on his gun, he looked straight away into the farthest distance. +On the left was a blurred edge of pines, with tops like ungainly tendrils +feeling for the sky. On the right was a long bare stretch of hills +veiled in the thin smoke of the evening, and between, straight before +him, was a wide lane of unknown country, billowing away to where it froze +into the vast archipelago that closes with the summit of the world. He +experienced now that weird charm which has drawn so many into Arctic +wilds and gathered the eyes of millions longingly. Wife, child, London, +civilisation, were forgotten for the moment. He was under a spell which, +once felt, lingers in your veins always. + +At length his look drew away from the glimmering distance, and he +suddenly became conscious of human presence. Here, almost at his feet, +was a man, also looking out along that slumbering waste. He was dressed +in skins, his arms were folded across his breast, his chin bent low, and +he gazed up and out from deep eyes shadowed by strong brows. Lawless saw +the shoulders of the watcher heave and shake once or twice, and then a +voice with a deep aching trouble in it spoke; but at first he could catch +no words. Presently, however, he heard distinctly, for the man raised +his hands high above his head, and the words fell painfully: "Am I my +brother's keeper?" + +Then a low harsh laugh came from him, and he was silent again. Lawless +did not move. At last the man turned round, and, seeing him standing +motionless, his gun in his hands, he gave a hoarse cry. Then he stood +still. "If you have come to kill, do not wait," he said; "I am ready." + +At the sound of Lawless's reassuring voice he recovered, and began, +in stumbling words, to excuse himself. His face was as Jacques Parfaite +had described it: trouble of some terrible kind was furrowed in it, and, +though his body was stalwart, he looked as if he had lived a century. +His eyes dwelt on Sir Duke Lawless for a moment, and then, coming nearer, +he said, "You are an Englishman?" + +Lawless held out his hand in greeting, yet he was not sorry when the +other replied: "The hand of no man in greeting. Are you alone?" + +When he had been told, he turned towards the Fort, and silently they made +their way to it. At the door he turned and said to Lawless, "My name--to +you--is Detmold." + +The greeting between Jacques and his sombre host was notable for +its extreme brevity; with Shon McGann for its hesitation--Shon's +impressionable Irish nature was awed by the look of the man, though he +had seen some strange things in the north. Darkness was on them by this +time, and the host lighted bowls of fat with wicks of deer's tendons, and +by the light of these and the fire they ate their supper. Parfaite +beguiled the evening with tales of the north, always interesting to +Lawless; to which Shon added many a shrewd word of humour--for he had +recovered quickly from his first timidity in the presence of the +stranger. + +As time went on Jacques saw that their host's eyes were frequently fixed +on Sir Duke in a half-eager, musing way, and he got Shon away to bed and +left the two together. + +"You are a singular man. Why do you live here?" said Lawless. Then he +went straight to the heart of the thing. "What trouble have you had, of +what crime are you guilty?" + +The man rose to his feet, shaking, and walked to and fro in the room for +a time, more than once trying to speak, but failing. He beckoned to +Lawless, and opened the door. Lawless took his hat and followed him +along the trail they had travelled before supper until they came to the +ridge where they had met. The man faced the north, the moon glistening +coldly on his grey hair. He spoke with incredible weight and slowness: + +"I tell you--for you are one who understands men, and you come from a +life that I once knew well. I know of your people. I was of good +family--" + +"I know the name," said Sir Duke quietly, at the same time fumbling in +his memory for flying bits of gossip and history which he could not +instantly find. + +"There were two brothers of us. I was the younger. A ship was going to +the Arctic Sea." He pointed into the north. "We were both young and +ambitious. He was in the army, I the navy. We went with the expedition. +At first it was all beautiful and grand, and it seemed noble to search +for those others who had gone into that land and never come back. But +our ship got locked in the ice, and then came great trouble. A year went +by and we did not get free; then another year began. . . . Four of us +set out for the south. Two died. My brother and I were left--" + +Lawless exclaimed. He now remembered how general sympathy went out to a +well-known county family when it was announced that two of its members +were lost in the Arctic regions. + +Detmold continued: "I was the stronger. He grew weaker and weaker. It +was awful to live those days: the endless snow and cold, the long nights +when you could only hear the whirring of meteors, the bright sun which +did not warm you, nor even when many suns, the reflections of itself, +followed it--the mocking sun dogs, no more the sun than I am what my +mother brought into the world. . . . We walked like dumb men, for the +dreadful cold fills the heart with bitterness. I think I grew to hate +him because he could not travel faster, that days were lost, and death +crept on so pitilessly. Sometimes I had a mad wish to kill him. May you +never know suffering that begets such things! I laughed as I sat beside +him, and saw him sink to sleep and die. . . . I think I could have +saved him. When he was gone I--what do men do sometimes when starvation +is on them, and they have a hunger of hell to live? I did that shameless +thing--and he was my brother! . . . I lived, and was saved." + +Lawless shrank away from the man, but words of horror got no farther than +his throat. And he was glad afterwards that it was so; for when he +looked again at this woful relic of humanity before him he felt a strange +pity. + +"God's hand is on me to punish," said the man. "It will never be lifted. +Death were easy: I bear the infamy of living." + +Lawless reached out and caught him gently by the shoulders. "Poor +fellow! poor Detmold!" he said. For an instant the sorrowful face +lighted, the square chin trembled, and the hands thrust out towards +Lawless, but suddenly dropped. + +"Go," he said humbly, "and leave me here. We must not meet again. . . +I have had one moment of respite. . . . Go." + +Without a word, Lawless turned and made his way to the Fort. In the +morning the three comrades started on their journey again; but no one +sped them on their way or watched them as they went. + + + + + + +THE PILOT OF BELLE AMOUR + +He lived in a hut on a jutting crag of the Cliff of the King. You could +get to it by a hard climb up a precipitous pathway, or by a ladder of +ropes which swung from his cottage door down the cliff-side to the sands. +The bay that washed the sands was called Belle Amour. The cliff was +huge, sombre; it had a terrible granite moroseness. If you travelled +back from its edge until you stood within the very heart of Labrador, you +would add step upon step of barrenness and austerity. + +Only at seasons did the bay share the gloom of the cliff. When out of +its shadow it was, in summer, very bright and playful, sometimes +boisterous, often idle, coquetting with the sands. There was a great +difference between the cliff and the bay: the cliff was only as it +appeared, but the bay was a shameless hypocrite. For under one shoulder +it hid a range of reefs, and, at a spot where the shadows of the cliff +never reached it, and the sun played with a grim kind of joy, a long +needle of rock ran up at an angle under the water, waiting to pierce +irresistibly the adventurous ship that, in some mad moment, should creep +to its shores. + +The man was more like the cliff than the bay: stern, powerful, brooding. +His only companions were the Indians, who in summer-time came and went, +getting stores of him, which he in turn got from a post of the Hudson's +Bay Company, seventy miles up the coast. At one time the Company, +impressed by the number of skins brought to them by the pilot, and the +stores he bought of them, had thought of establishing a post at Belle +Amour; but they saw that his dealings with them were fair and that he had +small gain, and they decided to use him as an unofficial agent, and reap +what profit was to be had as things stood. Kenyon, the Company's agent, +who had the Post, was keen to know why Gaspard the pilot lived at Belle +Amour. No white man sojourned near him, and he saw no one save now and +then a priest who travelled silently among the Indians, or some +fisherman, hunter, or woodsman, who, for pleasure or from pure adventure, +ran into the bay and tasted the hospitality tucked away on a ledge of the +Cliff of the King. + +To Kenyon, Gaspard was unresponsive, however adroit the catechism. +Father Corraine also, who sometimes stepped across the dark threshold of +Gaspard's hut, would have, for the man's soul's sake, dug out the heart +of his secret; but Gaspard, open with food, fire, blanket, and tireless +attendance, closed like the doors of a dungeon when the priest would have +read him. At the name of good Ste. Anne he would make the sacred +gesture, and would take a blessing when the priest passed from his hut +to go again into the wilds; but when pressed to disclose his mind and +history, he would always say: "M'sieu', I have nothing to confess." +After a number of years the priest ceased to ask him, and he remained +with the secret of his life, inscrutable and silent. + +Being vigilant, one would have seen, however, that he lived in some land +of memory or anticipation, beyond his life of daily toil and usual +dealing. The hut seemed to have been built at a point where east and +west and south the great gulf could be seen and watched. It seemed +almost ludicrous that a man should call himself a pilot on a coast and at +a bay where a pilot was scarce needed once a year. But he was known as +Gaspard the pilot, and on those rare occasions when a vessel did anchor +in the bay, he performed his duties with such a certainty as to leave +unguessed how many deathtraps crouched near that shore. At such times, +however, Gaspard seemed to look twenty years younger. A light would come +into his face, a stalwart kind of pride sit on him, though beneath there +lurked a strange, sardonic look in his deep eyes--such a grim furtiveness +as though he should say: "If I but twist my finger we are all for the +fishes." But he kept his secret and waited. He never seemed to tire of +looking down the gulf, as though expecting some ship. If one appeared +and passed on, he merely nodded his head, hung up his glass, returned to +his work, or, sitting by the door, talked to himself in low, strange +tones. If one came near, making as if it would enter the bay, a hungry +joy possessed him. If a storm was on, the joy was the greater. No pilot +ever ventured to a ship on such rough seas as Gaspard ventured for small +profit or glory. + +Behind it all lay his secret. There came one day a man who discovered +it. + +It was Pierre, the half-breed adventurer. There was no point in all the +wild northland which Pierre had not touched. He loved it as he loved the +game of life. He never said so of it, but he never said so of the game +of life, and he played it with a deep subterranean joy. He had had his +way with the musk-ox in the Arctic Circle; with the white bear at the +foot of Alaskan Hills; with the seal in Baffin's Bay; with the puma on +the slope of the Pacific; and now at last he had come upon the trail of +Labrador. Its sternness, its moodiness pleased him. He smiled at it the +comprehending smile of the man who has fingered the nerves and the heart +of men and things. As a traveller, wandering through a prison, looks +upon its grim cells and dungeons with the eye of unembarrassed freedom, +finding no direful significance in the clank of its iron, so Pierre +travelled down with a handful of Indians through the hard fastnesses of +that country, and, at last, alone, came upon the bay of Belle Amour. + +There was in him some antique touch of refinement and temperament which, +in all his evil days and deeds and moments of shy nobility, could find +its way into the souls of men with whom the world had had an awkward +hour. He was a man of little speech, but he had that rare persuasive +penetration which unlocked the doors of trouble, despair, and tragedy. +Men who would never have confessed to a priest confessed to him. In his +every fibre was the granite of the Indian nature, which looked upon +punishment with stoic satisfaction. + +In the heart of Labrador he had heard of Gaspard, and had travelled to +that point in the compass where he could find him. One day when the sun +was fighting hard to make a pathway of light in front of Gaspard's hut, +Pierre rounded a corner of the cliff and fronted Gaspard as he sat there, +his eyes idling gloomily with the sea. They said little to each other-- +in new lands hospitality has not need of speech. When Gaspard and Pierre +looked each other in the eyes they knew that one word between them was as +a hundred with other men. The heart knows its confessor, and the +confessor knows the shadowed eye that broods upon some ghostly secret; +and when these are face to face there comes a merciless concision of +understanding. + +"From where away?" said Gaspard, as he handed some tobacco to Pierre. + +"From Hudson's Bay, down the Red Wolf Plains, along the hills, across the +coast country, here." + +"Why?" Gaspard eyed Pierre's small kit with curiosity; then flung up a +piercing, furtive look. Pierre shrugged his shoulders. + +"Adventure, adventure," he answered. "The land"--he pointed north, west, +and east--"is all mine. I am the citizen of every village and every camp +of the great north." + +The old man turned his head towards a spot up the shore of Belle Amour, +before he turned to Pierre again, with a strange look, and said: "Where +do you go?" + +Pierre followed his gaze to that point in the shore, felt the +undercurrent of vague meaning in his voice, guessed what was his cue, and +said: "Somewhere, sometime; but now only Belle Amour. I have had a long +travel. I have found an open door. I will stay--if you please--hein? +If you please?" + +Gaspard brooded. "It is lonely," he replied. "This day it is all +bright; the sun shines and the little gay waves crinkle to the shore. +But, mon Dieu! sometimes it is all black and ugly with storm. The waves +come grinding, booming in along the gridiron rocks"--he smiled a grim +smile--"break through the teeth of the reefs, and split with a roar of +hell upon the cliff. And all the time, and all the time,"--his voice got +low with a kind of devilish joy,--"there is a finger--Jesu! you should +see that finger of the devil stretch up from the bowels of the earth, +waiting, waiting for something to come out of the storm. And then--and +then you can hear a wild laugh come out of the land, come up from the +sea, come down from the sky--all waiting, waiting for something! No, no, +you would not stay here." + +Pierre looked again to that point in the shore towards which Gaspard's +eyes had been cast. The sun was shining hard just then, and the stern, +sharp rocks, tumbling awkwardly back into the waste behind, had an +insolent harshness. Day perched garishly there. Yet now and then the +staring light was broken by sudden and deep shadows--great fissures in +the rocks and lanes between. These gave Pierre a suggestion, though why, +he could not say. He knew that when men live lives of patient, gloomy +vigilance, they generally have something to watch and guard. Why should +Gaspard remain here year after year? His occupation was nominally a +pilot in a bay rarely touched by vessels, and then only for shelter. +A pilot need not take his daily life with such brooding seriousness. +In body he was like flexible metal, all cord and muscle. He gave the +impression of bigness, though he was small in stature. Yet, as Pierre +studied him, he saw something that made him guess the man had had about +him one day a woman, perhaps a child; no man could carry that look +unless. If a woman has looked at you from day to day, something of her, +some reflection of her face, passes to yours and stays there; and if a +child has held your hand long, or hung about your knees, it gives you a +kind of gentle wariness as you step about your home. + +Pierre knew that a man will cherish with a deep, eternal purpose a memory +of a woman or a child, when, no matter how compelling his cue to remember +where a man is concerned, he will yield it up in the end to time. +Certain speculations arranged themselves definitely in Pierre's mind: +there was a woman, maybe a child once; there was some sorrowful mystery +about them; there was a point in the shore that had held the old man's +eyes strangely; there was the bay with that fantastic "finger of the +devil" stretching up from the bowels of the world. Behind the symbol lay +the Thing what was it? + +Long time he looked out upon the gulf, then his eyes drew into the bay +and stayed there, seeing mechanically, as a hundred fancies went through +his mind. There were reefs of which the old man had spoken. He could +guess from the colour and movement of the water where they were. The +finger of the devil--was it not real? A finger of rock, waiting as the +old man said--for what? + +Gaspard touched his shoulder. He rose and went with him into the gloomy +cabin. They ate and drank in silence. When the meal was finished they +sat smoking till night fell. Then the pilot lit a fire, and drew his +rough chair to the door. Though it was only late summer, it was cold in +the shade of the cliff. Long time they sat. Now and again Pierre +intercepted the quick, elusive glance of his silent host. Once the pilot +took the pipe from his mouth, and leaned his hands on his knees as if +about to speak. But he did not. + +Pierre saw that the time was ripe for speech. So he said, as though he +knew something: "It is a long time since it happened?" + +Gaspard, brooding, answered: "Yes, a long time--too long." Then, +as if suddenly awakened to the strangeness of the question, he added, +in a startled way: " What do you know? Tell me quick what you know." + +"I know nothing except what comes to me here, pilot,"--Pierre touched his +forehead," but there is a thing--I am not sure what. There was a woman-- +perhaps a child; there is something on the shore; there is a hidden point +of rock in the bay; and you are waiting for a ship--for the ship, and it +does not come--isn't that so?" + +Gaspard got to his feet, and peered into Pierre's immobile face. Their +eyes met. + +"Mon Dieu!" said the pilot, his hand catching the smoke away from +between them, "you are a droll man; you have a wonderful mind. You are +cold like ice, and still there is in you a look of fire." + +"Sit down," answered Pierre quietly, "and tell me all. Perhaps I could +think it out little by little; but it might take too long--and what is +the good?" + +Slowly Gaspard obeyed. Both hands rested on his knees, and he stared +abstractedly into the fire. Pierre thrust forward the tobacco-bag. His +hand lifted, took the tobacco, and then his eyes came keenly to Pierre's. +He was about to speak. . . . "Fill your pipe first," said the half-breed +coolly. The old man did so abstractedly. When the pipe was lighted, +Pierre said: "Now!" + +"I have never told the story, never--not even to Pere Corraine. But I +know, I have it here"--he put his hand to his forehead, as did Pierre-- +"that you will be silent." Pierre nodded. + +"She was fine to see. Her eyes were black as beads; and when she laugh +it was all music. I was so happy! We lived on the island of the Aux +Coudres, far up there at Quebec. It was a wild place. There were +smugglers and others there--maybe pirates. But she was like a saint of +God among all. I was lucky man. I was pilot, and took ships out to sea, +and brought them in safe up the gulf. It is not all easy, for there are +mad places. Once or twice when a wild storm was on I could not land at +Cap Martin, and was carried out to sea and over to France. . . . +Well, that was not so bad; there was plenty to eat and drink, nothing to +do. But when I marry it was differen'. I was afraid of being carried +away and leave my wife--the belle Mamette--alone long time. You see, +I was young, and she was ver' beautiful." + +He paused and caught his hand over his mouth as though to stop a sound: +the lines of his face deepened. Presently he puffed his pipe so hard +that the smoke and the sparks hid him in a cloud through which he spoke. +"When the child was born--Holy Mother! have you ever felt the hand of +your own child in yours, and looked at the mother, as she lies there all +pale and shining between the quilts?" + +He paused. Pierre's eyes dropped to the floor. Gaspard continued: +"Well, it is a great thing, and the babe was born quick one day when we +were all alone. A thing like that gives you wonder. Then I could not +bear to go away with the ships, and at last I said: 'One month, and then +the ice fills the gulf, and there will be no more ships for the winter. +That will be the last for me. I will be pilot no more-no.' She was ver' +happy, and a laugh ran over her little white teeth. Mon Dieu, I stop +that laugh pretty quick--in fine way!" + +He seemed for an instant to forget his great trouble, and his face went +to warm sunshine like a boy's; but it was as sun playing on a scarred +fortress. Presently the light faded out of his face and left it like +iron smouldering from the bellows. + +"Well," he said, "you see there was a ship to go almost the last of the +season, and I said to my wife, 'Mamette, it is the last time I shall be +pilot. You must come with me and bring the child, and they will put us +off at Father Point, and then we will come back slow to the village on +the good Ste. Anne and live there ver' quiet.' When I say that to her +she laugh back at me and say, 'Beau! beau!' and she laugh in the child's +eyes, and speak--nom de Dieu! she speak so gentle and light--and say to +the child: 'Would you like go with your father a pretty journey down the +gulf?' And the little child laugh back at her, and shake its soft brown +hair over its head. They were both so glad to go. I went to the captain +of the ship. I say to him, 'I will take my wife and my little child, and +when we come to Father Point we will go ashore.' Bien, the captain laugh +big, and it was all right. That was long time ago--long time." + +He paused again, threw his head back with a despairing toss, his chin +dropped on his breast, his hands clasped between his knees, and his pipe, +laid beside him on the bench, was forgotten. + +Pierre quietly put some wood upon the fire, opened his kit, drew out +from it a little flask of rum and laid it upon the bench beside the pipe. +A long time passed. At last Gaspard roused himself with a long sigh, +turned and picked up the pipe, but, seeing the flask of rum, lifted it, +and took one long swallow before he began to fill and light his pipe. +There came into his voice something of iron hardness as he continued his +story. + +"Alors, we went into the boat. As we travelled down the gulf a great +storm came out of the north. We thought it would pass, but it stayed on. +When we got to the last place where the pilot could land, the waves were +running like hills to the shore, and no boat could live between the ship +and the point. For myself, it was nothing--I am a strong man and a great +swimmer. But when a man has a wife and a child, it is differen'. So the +ship went on out into the ocean with us. Well, we laugh a little, and +think what a great brain I had when I say to my wife: 'Come and bring the +child for the last voyage of Gaspard the pilot.' You see, there we were +on board the ship, everything ver' good, plenty to eat, much to drink, to +smoke, all the time. The sailors, they were ver' funny, and to see them +take my child, my little Babette, and play with her as she roll on the +deck--merci, it was gran'! So I say to my wife: + +"'This will be bon voyage for all.' But a woman, she has not the mind +like a man. When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil, a +woman laugh too, but there come a little quick sob to her lips. You ask +her why, and she cannot tell. She know that something will happen. A +man has great idee, a woman great sight. So my wife, she turn her face +away all sad from me then, and she was right--she was right! + +"One day in the ocean we pass a ship--only two days out. The ship signal +us. I say to my wife: 'Ha, ha! now we can go back, maybe, to the good +Ste. Anne.' Well, the ships come close together, and the captain of the +other ship he have something importan' with ours. He ask if there will +be chance of pilot into the gulf, because it is the first time that he +visit Quebec. The captain swing round and call to me. I go up. I bring +my wife and my little Babette; and that was how we sail back to the great +gulf. + +"When my wife step on board that ship I see her face get pale, and +something strange in her eyes. I ask her why; she do not know, but she +hug Babette close to her breast with a kind of fear. A long, low, black +ship, it could run through every sea. Soon the captain come to me and +say: 'You know the coast, the north coast of the gulf, from Labrador to +Quebec?' I tell him yes. 'Well,' he say, 'do you know of a bay where few +ships enter safe?' I think a moment and I tell him of Belle Amour. Then +he say, ver' quick: 'That is the place; we will go to the bay of Belle +Amour.' He was ver' kind to my face; he give my wife and child good +berth, plenty to eat and drink, and once more I laugh; but my wife--there +was in her face something I not understan'. It is not easy to understan' +a woman. We got to the bay. I had pride: I was young. I was the best +pilot in the St. Lawrence, and I took in the ship between the reefs of +the bay, where they run like a gridiron, and I laugh when I swing the +ship all ver' quick to the right, after we pass the reefs, and make a +curve round--something. The captain pull me up and ask why. But I never +tell him that. I not know why I never tell him. But the good God put +the thought into my head, and I keep it to this hour, and it never leave +me, never--never!" + +He slowly rubbed his hands up and down his knees, took another sip of +rum, and went on: + +"I brought the ship close up to the shore, and we go to anchor. All that +night I see the light of a fire on the shore. So I slide down and swim +to the shore. Under a little arch of rocks something was going on. +I could not tell, but I know from the sound that they are to bury +something. Then, all at once, it come to me--this is a pirate ship! +I come closer and closer to the light, and then I see a dreadful thing. +There was the captain and the mate, and another. They turn quick upon +two other men--two sailors--and kill them. Then they take the bodies +and wound them round some casks in a great hole, and cover it all up. +I understan'. It is the old legend that a dead body will keep gold all +to itself, so that no one shall find it. Mon Dieu!"--his voice dropped +low and shook in his throat--"I give one little cry at the sight, and +then they see me. There were three. They were armed; they sprang upon +me and tied me. Then they fling me beside the fire, and they cover up +the hole with the gold and the bodies. + +"When that was done they take me back to the ship, then with pistols at +my head they make me pilot the ship out into the bay again. As we went +they make a chart of the place. We travel along the coast for one day; +and then a great storm of snow come, and the captain say to me: 'Steer +us into harbour.' When we are at anchor, they take me and my wife, and +little child and put us ashore alone, with a storm and the bare rocks and +the dreadful night, and leave us there, that we shall never tell the +secret of the gold. That night my wife and my child die in the snow." + +Here his voice became strained and slow. "After a long time I work my +way to an Injin camp. For months I was a child in strength, all my flesh +gone. When the spring come I went and dug a deeper grave for my wife, +and p'tite Babette, and leave them there, where they had died. But I +come to the bay of Belle Amour, because I knew some day the man with the +devil's heart would come back for his gold, and then would arrive my +time--the hour of God!" + +He paused. "The hour of God," he repeated slowly. "I have waited +twenty years, but he has not come; yet I know that he will come. I feel +it here"--he touched his forehead; "I know it here"--he tapped his heart. +"Once where my heart was, there is only one thing, and it is hate, and I +know--I know--that he will come. And when he comes--" He raised his arm +high above his head, laughed wildly, paused, let the hand drop, and then +fell to staring into the fire. + +Pierre again placed the flask of rum between his fingers. But Gaspard +put it down, caught his arms together across his breast, and never turned +his face from the fire. Midnight came, and still they sat there silent. +No man had a greater gift in waiting than Pierre. Many a time his life +had been a swivel, upon which the comedies and tragedies of others had +turned. He neither loved nor feared men: sometimes he pitied them. He +pitied Gaspard. He knew what it is to have the heartstrings stretched +out, one by one, by the hand of a Gorgon, while the feet are chained to +the rocking world. + +Not till the darkest hour of the morning did the two leave their silent +watch and go to bed. The sun had crept stealthily to the door of the but +before they rose again. Pierre laid his hand upon Gaspard's shoulder as +they travelled out into the morning, and said: "My friend, I understand. +Your secret is safe with me; you shall take me to the place where the +gold is buried, but it shall wait there until the time is ripe. What is +gold to me? Nothing. To find gold--that is the trick of any fool. To +win it or to earn it is the only game. Let the bodies rot about the +gold. You and I will wait. I have many friends in the northland, but +there is no face in any tent door looking for me. You are alone: well, +I will stay with you. Who can tell--perhaps it is near at hand--the hour +of God!" + +The huge hard hand of Gaspard swallowed the small hand of Pierre, and, in +a voice scarcely above a whisper, he answered: "You shall be my comrade. +I have told you all, as I have never told it to my God. I do not fear +you about the gold--it is all cursed. You are not like other men; I will +trust you. Some time you also have had the throat of a man in your +fingers, and watched the life spring out of his eyes, and leave them all +empty. When men feel like that, what is gold--what is anything! There +is food in the bay and on the hills. + +"We will live together, you and I. Come and I will show you the place of +hell." + +Together they journeyed down the crag and along the beach to the place +where the gold, the grim god of this world, was fortressed and bastioned +by its victims. + +The days went on; the weeks and months ambled by. Still the two +lived together. Little speech passed between them, save that speech +of comrades, who use more the sign than the tongue. It seemed to Pierre +after a time that Gaspard's wrongs were almost his own. Yet with this +difference: he must stand by and let the avenger be the executioner; +he must be the spectator merely. + +Sometimes he went inland and brought back moose, caribou, and the skins +of other animals, thus assisting Gaspard in his dealings with the great +Company. But again there were days when he did nothing but lie on the +skins at the hut's door, or saunter in the shadows and the sunlight. Not +since he had come to Gaspard had a ship passed the bay or sought to +anchor in it. + +But there came a day. It was the early summer. The snow had shrunk +from the ardent sun, and had swilled away to the gulf, leaving the tender +grass showing. The moss on the rocks had changed from brown to green, +and the vagrant birds had fluttered back from the south. The winter's +furs had been carried away in the early spring to the Company's post, +by a detachment of coureurs de bois. There was little left to do. This +morning they sat in the sun looking out upon the gulf. Presently Gaspard +rose and went into the hut. Pierre's eyes still lazily scanned the +water. As he looked he saw a vessel rounding a point in the distance. +Suppose this was the ship of the pirate and murderer? The fancy diverted +him. His eyes drew away from the indistinct craft--first to the reefs, +and then to that spot where the colossal needle stretched up under the +water. It was as Pierre speculated. Brigond, the French pirate, who had +hidden his gold at such shameless cost, was, after twenty years in the +galleys at Toulon, come back to find his treasure. He had doubted little +that he would find it. The lonely spot, the superstition concerning dead +bodies, the supposed doom of Gaspard, all ran in his favour. His little +craft came on, manned by as vile a mob as ever mutinied or built a +wrecker's fire. + +When the ship got within a short distance of the bay, Pierre rose and +called. Gaspard came to the door. "There's work to do, pilot," he said. +Gaspard felt the thrill of his voice, and flashed a look out to the gulf. +He raised his hands with a gasp. "I feel it," he said: "it is the hour +of God!" + +He started to the rope ladder of the cliff, then wheeled suddenly and +came back to Pierre. "You must not come," he said. "Stay here and +watch; you shall see great things." His voice had a round, deep tone. +He caught both Pierre's hands in his and added: "It is for my wife and +child; I have no fear. Adieu, my friend! When you see the good Pere +Corraine say to him--but no, it is no matter--there is One greater!" + +Once again he caught Pierre hard by the shoulder, then ran to the cliff +and swung down the ladder. All at once there shot through Pierre's body +an impulse, and his eyes lighted with excitement. He sprang towards the +cliff. "Gaspard, come back!" he called; then paused, and, with an +enigmatical smile, shrugged his shoulders, drew back, and waited. + +The vessel was hove to outside the bay, as if hesitating. Brigond was +considering whether it were better, with his scant chart, to attempt the +bay, or to take small boats and make for the shore. He remembered the +reefs, but he did not know of the needle of rock. Presently he saw +Gaspard's boat coming. "Someone who knows the bay," he said; "I see a +hut on the cliff." + +"Hello, who are you?" Brigond called down as Gaspard drew alongside. + +"A Hudson's Bay Company's man," answered Gaspard. + +"How many are there of you?" + +"Myself alone." + +"Can you pilot us in?" + +"I know the way." + +"Come up." + +Gaspard remembered Brigond, and he veiled his eyes lest the hate he felt +should reveal him. No one could have recognised him as the young pilot +of twenty years before. Then his face was cheerful and bright, and in +his eye was the fire of youth. Now a thick beard and furrowing lines hid +all the look of the past. His voice, too, was desolate and distant. + +Brigond clapped him on the shoulder. "How long have you lived off +there?" he asked, as he jerked his finger towards the shore. + +"A good many years." + +"Did anything strange ever happen there?" Gaspard felt his heart +contract again, as it did when Brigond's hand touched his shoulder. + +"Nothing strange is known." + +A vicious joy came into Brigond's face. His fingers opened and shut. +"Safe, by the holy heaven!" he grunted. + +"'By the holy heaven!'" repeated Gaspard, under his breath. + +They walked forward. Almost as they did so there came a big puff of wind +across the bay: one of those sudden currents that run in from the ocean +and the gulf stream. Gaspard saw, and smiled. In a moment the vessel's +nose was towards the bay, and she sailed in, dipping a shoulder to the +sudden foam. On she came past reef and bar, a pretty tumbril to the +slaughter. The spray feathered up to her sails, the sun caught her on +deck and beam; she was running dead for the needle of rock. + +Brigond stood at Gaspard's side. All at once Gaspard made the sacred +gesture and said, in a low tone, as if only to himself: "Pardon, mon +capitaine, mon Jesu!" Then he turned triumphantly, fiercely, upon +Brigond. The pirate was startled. "What's the matter?" he said. + +Not Gaspard, but the needle rock replied. There was a sudden shock; the +vessel stood still and shivered; lurched, swung shoulder downwards, +reeled and struggled. Instantly she began to sink. + +"The boats! lower the boats!" cried Brigond. "This cursed fool has run +us on a rock!" + +The waves, running high, now swept over the deck. Brigond started aft, +but Gaspard sprang before him. "Stand back!" he called. "Where you are +you die!" + +Brigond, wild with terror and rage, ran at him. Gaspard caught him as he +came. With vast strength he lifted him and dashed him to the deck. "Die +there, murderer!" he cried. + +Brigond crouched upon the deck, looking at him with fearful eyes. "Who- +are you?" he asked. + +"I am Gaspard the pilot. I have waited for you twenty years. Up there, +in the snow, my wife and child died. Here, in this bay, you die." + +There was noise and racketing behind them, but they two heard nothing. +The one was alone with his terror, the other with his soul. Once, twice, +thrice, the vessel heaved, then went suddenly still. + +Gaspard understood. One look at his victim, then he made the sacred +gesture again, and folded his arms. Pierre, from the height of the +cliff, looking down, saw the vessel dip at the bow, and then the waters +divided and swallowed it up. + +"Gaspard should have lived," he said. "But--who can tell! Perhaps +Mamette was waiting for him." + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Have you ever felt the hand of your own child in yours +Memory is man's greatest friend and worst enemy +Solitude fixes our hearts immovably on things +When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil + + + + + + +A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + +BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE PERSONAL HISTORIES OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE" +AND THE LAST EXISTING RECORDS OF PRETTY PIERRE + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 5. + + +THE CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" +A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS +THE PLUNDERER + + + + +THE CRUISE OF THE "NINETY-NINE" + +I. THE SEARCH + +She was only a big gulf yawl, which a man and a boy could manage at a +pinch, with old-fashioned high bulwarks, but lying clean in the water. +She had a tolerable record for speed, and for other things so important +that they were now and again considered by the Government at Quebec. +She was called the Ninety-Nine. With a sense of humour the cure had +called her so, after an interview with her owner and captain, Tarboe the +smuggler. When he said to Tarboe at Angel Point that he had come to seek +the one sheep that was lost, leaving behind him the other ninety-and-nine +within the fold at Isle of Days, Tarboe had replied that it was a +mistake--he was the ninety-nine, for he needed no repentance, and +immediately offered the cure some old brown brandy of fine flavour. +They both had a whimsical turn, and the cure did not ask Tarboe how he +came by such perfect liquor. Many high in authority, it was said, had +been soothed even to the winking of an eye when they ought to have sent +a Nordenfeldt against the Ninety-Nine. + +The day after the cure left Angel Point he spoke of Tarboe and his craft +as the Ninety-and-Nine; and Tarboe hearing of this--for somehow he heard +everything--immediately painted out the old name, and called her the +Ninety-Nine, saying that she had been so blessed by the cure. Afterwards +the Ninety-Nine had an increasing reputation for exploit and daring. In +brief, Tarboe and his craft were smugglers, and to have trusted gossip +would have been to say that the boat was as guilty as the man. + +Their names were much more notorious than sweet; and yet in Quebec men +laughed as they shrugged their shoulders at them; for as many jovial +things as evil were told of Tarboe. When it became known that a +dignitary of the Church had been given a case of splendid wine, which +had come in a roundabout way to him, men waked in the night and laughed, +to the annoyance of their wives; for the same dignitary had preached +a powerful sermon against smugglers and the receivers of stolen goods. +It was a sad thing for monsignor to be called a Ninety-Niner, as were all +good friends of Tarboe, high and low. But when he came to know, after +the wine had been leisurely drunk and becomingly praised, he brought his +influence to bear in civic places, so that there was nothing left to do +but to corner Tarboe at last. + +It was in the height of summer, when there was little to think of in the +old fortressed city, and a dart after a brigand appealed to the romantic +natures of the idle French folk, common and gentle. + +Through clouds of rank tobacco smoke, and in the wash of their bean soup, +the habitants discussed the fate of "Black Tarboe," and officers of the +garrison and idle ladies gossiped at the Citadel and at Murray Bay of the +freebooting gentlemen, whose Ninety-Nine had furnished forth many a table +in the great walled city. But Black Tarboe himself was down at +Anticosti, waiting for a certain merchantman. Passing vessels saw the +Ninety-Nine anchored in an open bay, flying its flag flippantly before +the world--a rag of black sheepskin, with the wool on, in profane keeping +with its name. + +There was no attempt at hiding, no skulking behind a point, or scurrying +from observation, but an indolent and insolent waiting--for something. +"Black Tarboe's getting reckless," said one captain coming in, and +another, going out, grinned as he remembered the talk at Quebec, and +thought of the sport provided for the Ninety-Nine when she should come up +stream; as she must in due time, for Tarboe's home was on the Isle of +Days, and was he not fond and proud of his daughter Joan to a point of +folly? He was not alone in his admiration of Joan, for the cure at Isle +of Days said high things of her. + +Perhaps this was because she was unlike most other girls, and women too, +in that she had a sense of humour, got from having mixed with choice +spirits who visited her father and carried out at Angel Point a kind of +freemasonry, which had few rites and many charges and countercharges. +She had that almost impossible gift in a woman--the power of telling a +tale whimsically. It was said that once, when Orvay Lafarge, a new +Inspector of Customs, came to spy out the land, she kept him so amused +by her quaint wit, that he sat in the doorway gossiping with her, while +Tarboe and two others unloaded and safely hid away a cargo of liquors +from the Ninety-Nine. And one of the men, as cheerful as Joan herself, +undertook to carry a little keg of brandy into the house, under the very +nose of the young inspector, who had sought to mark his appointment by +the detection and arrest of Tarboe single-handed. He had never met +Tarboe or Tarboe's daughter when he made his boast. If his superiors had +known that Loco Bissonnette, Tarboe's jovial lieutenant, had carried the +keg of brandy into the house in a water-pail, not fifteen feet from where +Lafarge sat with Joan, they might have asked for his resignation. True, +the thing was cleverly done, for Bissonnette made the water spill quite +naturally against his leg, and when he turned to Joan and said in a +crusty way that he didn't care if he spilled all the water in the pail, +he looked so like an unwilling water-carrier that Joan for one little +moment did not guess. When she understood, she laughed till the tears +came to her eyes, and presently, because Lafarge seemed hurt, gave him to +understand that he was upon his honour if she told him what it was. He +consenting, she, still laughing, asked him into the house, and then drew +the keg from the pail, before his eyes, and, tapping it, gave him some +liquor, which he accepted without churlishness. He found nothing in this +to lessen her in his eyes, for he knew that women have no civic virtues. +He drank to their better acquaintance with few compunctions; a matter not +scandalous, for there is nothing like a witty woman to turn a man's head, +and there was not so much at stake after all. Tarboe had gone on for +many a year till his trade seemed like the romance of law rather than its +breach. It is safe to say that Lafarge was a less sincere if not a less +blameless customs officer from this time forth. For humour on a woman's +lips is a potent thing, as any man knows that has kissed it off in +laughter. + +As we said, Tarboe lay rocking in a bight at Anticosti, with an empty +hold and a scanty larder. Still, he was in no ill-humour, for he smoked +much and talked more than common. Perhaps that was because Joan was with +him--an unusual thing. She was as good a sailor as her father, but she +did not care, nor did he, to have her mixed up with him in his smuggling. +So far as she knew, she had never been on board the Ninety-Nine when it +carried a smuggled cargo. She had not broken the letter of the law. +Her father, on asking her to come on this cruise, had said that it +was a pleasure trip to meet a vessel in the gulf. + +The pleasure had not been remarkable, though there had been no bad +weather. The coast of Anticosti is cheerless, and it is possible even to +tire of sun and water. True, Bissonnette played the concertina with +passing sweetness, and sang as little like a wicked smuggler as one might +think. But there were boundaries even to that, as there were to his +love-making, which was, however, so interwoven with laughter that it was +impossible to think the matter serious. Sometimes of an evening Joan +danced on deck to the music of the concertina--dances which had their +origin largely with herself fantastic, touched off with some unexpected +sleight of foot--almost uncanny at times to Bissonnette, whose +temperament could hardly go her distance when her mood was as this. + +Tarboe looked on with a keener eye and understanding, for was she not +bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh? Who was he that he should fail +to know her? He saw the moonlight play on her face and hair, and he +waved his head with the swaying of her body, and smacked his lips in +thought of the fortune which, smuggling days over, would carry them up to +St. Louis Street, Quebec, there to dwell as in a garden of good things. + +After many days had passed, Joan tired of the concertina, of her own +dancing, of her father's tales, and became inquisitive. So at last she +said: + +"Father, what's all this for?" + +Tarboe did not answer her at once, but, turning to Bissonnette, asked +him to play "The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose." It was a gay little +demoiselle according to Bissonnette, and through the creaking, windy +gaiety Tarboe and his daughter could talk without being heard by the +musician. Tarboe lit another cigar--that badge of greatness in the +eyes of his fellow-habitants, and said: + +"What's all this for, Joan? Why, we're here for our health." His teeth +bit on the cigar with enjoyable emphasis. + +"If you don't tell me what's in the wind, you'll be sorry. Come, where's +the good? I've got as much head as you have, father, and--" + +"Mon Dieu! Much more. That's not the question. It was to be a surprise +to you." + +"Pshaw! You can only have one minute of surprise, and you can have +months of fun looking out for a thing. I don't want surprises; I want +what you've got--the thing that's kept you good-tempered while we lie +here like snails on the rocks." + +"Well, my cricket, if that's the way you feel, here you are. It is a +long story, but I will make it short. Once there was a pirate called +Brigond, and he brought into a bay on the coast of Labrador a fortune in +some kegs--gold, gold! He hid it in a cave, wrapping around it the dead +bodies of two men. It is thought that one can never find it so. He hid +it, and sailed away. He was captured, and sent to prison in France for +twenty years. Then he come back with a crew and another ship, and sailed +into the bay, but his ship went down within sight of the place. And so +the end of him and all. But wait. There was one man, the mate on the +first voyage. He had been put in prison also. He did not get away as +soon as Brigond. When he was free, he come to the captain of a ship that +I know, the Free-and-Easy, that sails to Havre, and told him the story, +asking for passage to Quebec. The captain--Gobal--did not believe it, +but said he would bring him over on the next voyage. Gobal come to me +and told me all there was to tell. I said that it was a true story, for +Pretty Pierre told me once he saw Brigond's ship go down in the bay; but +he would not say how, or why, or where. Pierre would not lie in a thing +like that, and--" + +"Why didn't he get the gold himself?" + +"What is money to him? He is as a gipsy. To him the money is cursed. +He said so. Eh bien! some wise men are fools, one way or another. Well, +I told Gobal I would give the man the Ninety-Nine for the cruise and +search, and that we should divide the gold between us, if it was found, +taking out first enough to make a dot for you and a fine handful for +Bissonnette. But no, shake not your head like that. It shall be so. +Away went Gobal four months ago, and I get a letter from him weeks past, +just after Pentecost, to say he would be here some time in the first of +July, with the man. + +"Well, it is a great game. The man is a pirate, but it does not matter-- +he has paid for that. I thought you would be glad of a fine adventure +like that, so I said to you, Come." + +"But, father--" + +"If you do not like you can go on with Gobal in the Free-and-Easy, and +you shall be landed at the Isle of Days. That's all. We're waiting here +for Gobal. He promised to stop just outside this bay and land our man on +us. Then, blood of my heart, away we go after the treasure!" + +Joan's eyes flashed. Adventure was in her as deep as life itself. She +had been cradled in it, reared in it, lived with it, and here was no law- +breaking. Whose money was it? No one's: for who should say what ship it +was, or what people were robbed by Brigond and those others? Gold--that +was a better game than wine and brandy, and for once her father would be +on a cruise which would not be, as it were, sailing in forbidden waters. + +"When do you expect Gobal?" she asked eagerly. "He ought to have been +here a week ago. Maybe he has had a bad voyage, or something." + +"He's sure to come?" + +"Of course. I found out about that. She's got a big consignment to +people in Quebec. Something has gone wrong, but she'll be here--yes." + +"What will you do if you get the money?" she asked. Tarboe laughed +heartily. "My faith! Come play up those scarlet hose, Bissonnette! +My faith, I'll go into Parliament at Quebec. Thunder! I will have sport +with them. I'll reform the customs. There shan't be any more smuggling. +The people of Quebec shall drink no more good wine--no one except Black +Tarboe, the member for Isle of Days." + +Again he laughed, and his eyes spilt fire like revolving wheels. For a +moment Joan was quiet; her face was shining like the sun on a river. She +saw more than her father, for she saw release. A woman may stand by a +man who breaks the law, but in her heart she always has bitterness, for +that the world shall speak well of herself and what she loves is the +secret desire of every woman. In her heart she never can defy the world +as does a man. + +She had carried off the situation as became the daughter of a daring +adventurer, who in more stirring times might have been a Du Lhut or a Rob +Roy, but she was sometimes tired of the fighting, sometimes wishful that +she could hold her position easier. Suppose the present good cure should +die and another less considerate arrive, how hard might her position +become! Then, she had a spirit above her station, as have most people +who know the world and have seen something of its forbidden side; for it +is notable that wisdom comes not alone from loving good things, but from +having seen evil as well as good. Besides Joan was not a woman to go +singly to her life's end. + +There was scarcely a man on Isle of Days and in the parish of Ste. +Eunice, on the mainland, but would gladly have taken to wife the daughter +of Tarboe the smuggler, and it is likely that the cure of either parish +would not have advised against it. + +Joan had had the taste of the lawless, and now she knew, as she sat and +listened to Bissonnette's music, that she also could dance for joy, in +the hope of a taste of the lawful. With this money, if it were got, +there could be another life--in Quebec. She could not forbear laughing +now as she remembered that first day she had seen Orvay Lafarge, and she +said to Bissonnette: "Loce, do you mind the keg in the water-pail?" +Bissonnette paused on an out-pull, and threw back his head with a +soundless laugh, then played the concertina into contortions. + +"That Lafarge! H'm! He is very polite; but pshaw, it is no use that, +in whisky-running! To beat a great man, a man must be great. Tarboe +Noir can lead M'sieu' Lafarge all like that!" + +It seemed as if he were pulling the nose of the concertina. Tarboe began +tracing a kind of maze with his fingers on the deck, his eyes rolling +outward like an endless puzzle. But presently he turned sharp on Joan. + +"How many times have you met him?" he asked. "Oh, six or seven--eight +or nine, perhaps." + +Her father stared. "Eight or nine? By the holy! Is it like that? +Where have you seen him?" + +"Twice at our home, as you know; two or three times at dances at the +Belle Chatelaine, and the rest when we were at Quebec in May. He is +amusing, M'sieu' Lafarge." + +"Yes, two of a kind," remarked Tarboe drily; and then he told his schemes +to Joan, letting Bissonnette hang up the "The Demoiselle with the Scarlet +Hose," and begin "The Coming of the Gay Cavalier." She entered into his +plans with spirit, and together they speculated what bay it might be, of +the many on the coast of Labrador. + +They spent two days longer waiting, and then at dawn a merchantman +came sauntering up to anchor. She signalled to the Ninety-Nine. In five +minutes Tarboe was climbing up the side of the Free-and-Easy, and +presently was in Gobal's cabin, with a glass of wine in his hand. + +"What kept you, Gobal?" he asked. "You're ten days late, at least." + +"Storm and sickness--broken mainmast and smallpox." Gobal was not +cheerful. + +Tarboe caught at something. "You've got our man?" Gobal drank off his +wine slowly. "Yes," he said. "Well?--Why don't you fetch him?" + +"You can see him below." + +"The man has legs, let him walk here. Hello, my Gobal, what's the +matter? If he's here bring him up. We've no time to lose." + +"Tarboe, the fool got smallpox, and died three hours ago--the tenth man +since we started. We're going to give him to the fishes. They're +putting him in his linen now." + +Tarboe's face hardened. Disaster did not dismay him, it either made him +ugly or humourous, and one phase was as dangerous as the other. + +"D'ye mean to say," he groaned, "that the game is up? Is it all +finished? Sweat o' my soul, my skin crawls like hot glass! Is it the +end, eh? The beast, to die!" + +Gobal's eyes glistened. He had sent up the mercury, he would now bring +it down. + +"Not such a beast as you think. Alive pirate, a convict, as comrade in +adventure, is not sugar in the teeth. This one was no better than the +worst. Well, he died. That was awkward. But he gave me the chart of +the bay before he died--and that was damn square." + +Tarboe held out his hand eagerly, the big fingers bending claw-like. + +"Give it me, Gobal," he said. + +"Wait. There's no hurry. Come along, there's the bell: they're going to +drop him." + +He coolly motioned, and passed out from the cabin to the ship's side. +Tarboe kept his tongue from blasphemy, and his hand from the captain's +shoulder, for he knew only too well that Gobal held the game in his +hands. They leaned over and saw two sailors with something on a plank. + +"We therefore commit his body to the deep, in the knowledge of the +Judgment Day--let her go!" grunted Gobal; and a long straight canvas +bundle shot with a swishing sound beneath the water. "It was rough on +him too," he continued. "He waited twenty years to have his chance +again. Damn me, if I didn't feel as if I'd hit him in the eye, somehow, +when he begged me to keep him alive long enough to have a look at the +rhino. But it wasn't no use. He had to go, and I told him so. + +"Then he did the fine thing: he give me the chart. But he made me swear +on a book of the Mass that if we got the gold we'd send one-half his +share to a woman in Paris, and the rest to his brother, a priest at +Nancy. I'll keep my word--but yes! Eh, Tarboe?" + +"You can keep your word for me! What, you think, Gobal, there is no +honour in Black Tarboe, and you've known me ten years! Haven't I always +kept my word like a clock?" + +Gobal stretched out his hand. "Like the sun-sure. That's enough. We'll +stand by my oath. You shall see the chart." + +Going again inside the cabin, Gobal took out a map grimed with ceaseless +fingering, and showed it to Tarboe, putting his finger on the spot where +the treasure lay. + +"The Bay of Belle Amour!" cried Tarboe, his eyes flashing. "Ah, I know +it! That's where Gaspard the pilot lived. It's only forty leagues or so +from here." His fingers ran here and there on the map. "Yes, yes," he +continued, "it's so, but he hasn't placed the reef right. Ah, here is +how Brigond's ship went down! There's a needle of rock in the bay. It +isn't here." + +Gobal handed the chart over. "I can't go with you, but I take your word; +I can say no more. If you cheat me I'll kill you; that's all." + +"Let me give a bond," said Tarboe quickly. "If I saw much gold perhaps +I couldn't trust myself, but there's someone to be trusted, who'll swear +for me. If my daughter Joan give her word--" + +"Is she with you?" + +"Yes, in the Ninety-Nine, now. I'll send Bissonnette for her. Yes, yes, +I'll send, for gold is worse than bad whisky when it gets into a man's +head. Joan will speak for me." + +Ten minutes later Joan was in Gobal's cabin, guaranteeing for her father +the fulfilment of his bond. An hour afterwards the Free-and-Easy was +moving up stream with her splintered mast and ragged sails, and the +Ninety-Nine was looking up and over towards the Bay of Belle Amour. She +reached it in the late afternoon of the next day. Bissonnette did not +know the object of the expedition, but he had caught the spirit of the +affair, and his eyes were like spots of steel as he held the sheet or +took his turn at the tiller. Joan's eyes were now on the sky, now on the +sail, and now on the land, weighing as wisely as her father the advantage +of the wind, yet dwelling on that cave where skeletons kept ward over the +spoils of a pirate ship. + +They arrived, and Tarboe took the Ninety-Nine warily in on a little wind +off the land. He came near sharing the fate of Brigond, for the yawl +grazed the needle of the rock that, hiding away in the water, with a nose +out for destruction, awaits its victims. They reached safe anchorage, +but by the time they landed it was night, with, however, a good moon +showing. + +All night they searched, three silent, eager figures, drawing step by +step nearer the place where the ancient enemy of man was barracked about +by men's bodies. It was Joan who, at last, as dawn drew up, discovered +the hollow between two great rocks where the treasure lay. A few +minutes' fierce digging, and the kegs of gold were disclosed, showing +through the ribs of two skeletons. Joan shrank back, but the two men +tossed aside the rattling bones, and presently the kegs were standing +between them on the open shore. Bissonnette's eyes were hungry--he knew +now the wherefore of the quest. He laughed outright, a silly, loud, +hysterical laugh. Tarboe's eyes shifted from the sky to the river, from +the river to the kegs, from the kegs to Bissonnette. On him they stayed +a moment. Bissonnette shrank back. Tarboe was feeling for the first +time in his life the deadly suspicion which comes with ill-gotten wealth. +This passed as his eyes and Joan's met, for she had caught the melodrama, +the overstrain; Bissonnette's laugh had pointed the situation; and her +sense of humour had prevailed. "La, la," she said, with a whimsical +quirk of the head, and no apparent relevancy: + + "Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, + Your house is on fire, and your children all gone." + +The remedy was good. Tarboe's eyes came again to their natural +liveliness, and Bissonnette said: + +"My throat's like a piece of sand-paper." + +Tarboe handed over a brandy flask, after taking a pull himself, and then +sitting down on one of the kegs, he said: "It is as you see, and now +Angel Point very quick. To get it there safe, that's the thing!" Then, +scanning the sky closely: "It's for a handsome day, and the wind goes to +bear us up fine. Good! Well, for you, Bissonnette, there shall be a +thousand dollars, you shall have the Belle Chatelaine Inn and the little +lady at Point Pierrot. For the rest, you shall keep a quiet tongue, eh? +If not, my Bissonnette, we shall be the best of strangers, and you shall +not be happy. Hein?" + +Bissonnette's eyes flashed. "The Belle Chatelaine? Good! That is +enough. My tongue is tied; I cannot speak; it is fastened with a +thousand pegs." + +"Very good, a thousand gold pegs, and you shall never pull them. The +little lady will have you with them, not without; and unless you stand by +me, no one shall have you at any price--by God!" + +He stood up, but Joan put out her hand. "You have been speaking, now it +is my turn. Don't cry cook till you have the venison home. What is +more, I gave my word to Gobal, and I will keep it. I will be captain. +No talking! When you've got the kegs in the cellar at Angel Point, good! +But now--come, my comrades, I am your captain!" + +She was making the thing a cheerful adventure, and the men now swung the +kegs on their shoulders and carried them to the boat. In another half- +hour they were under way in the gaudy light of an orange sunrise, a +simmering wind from the sea lifting them up the river, and the grey-red +coast of Labrador shrinking sullenly back. + +About this time, also, a Government cutter was putting out from under the +mountain-wall at Quebec, its officer in command having got renewed orders +from the Minister to bring in Tarboe the smuggler. And when Mr. Martin, +the inspector in command of the expedition, was ordered to take with him +Mr. Orvay Lafarge and five men, "effectively armed," it was supposed by +the romantic Minister that the matter was as good as done. + +What Mr. Orvay Lafarge did when he got the word, was to go straight to +his hat-peg, then leave the office, walk to the little club where he +spent leisure hours, called office hours by people who wished to be +precise as well as suggestive,--sit down, and raise a glass to his lips. +After which he threw himself back in his chair and said: "Well, I'm +particularly damned!" A few hours later they were away on their doubtful +exploit. + + + + +II. THE DEFENCE + +On the afternoon of the second day after she left Labrador, the Ninety- +Nine came rippling near Isle of Fires, not sixty miles from her +destination, catching a fair wind on her quarter off the land. Tarboe +was in fine spirits, Joan was as full of songs as a canary, and +Bissonnette was as busy watching her as in keeping the nose of the +Ninety-Nine pointing for Cap de Gloire. Tarboe was giving the sail full +to the wind, and thinking how he would just be able to reach Angel Point +and get his treasure housed before mass in the morning. + +Mass! How many times had he laughed as he sat in church and heard the +cure have his gentle fling at smuggling! To think that the hiding-place +for his liquor was the unused, almost unknown, cellar of that very +church, built a hundred years before as a refuge from the Indians, which +he had reached by digging a tunnel from the shore to its secret passage! +That was why the customs officers never found anything at Angel Point, +and that was why Tarboe much loved going to mass. He sometimes thought +he could catch the flavour of the brands as he leaned his forehead on the +seat before him. But this time he would go to mass with a fine handful +of those gold pieces in his pocket, just to keep him in a commendable +mood. He laughed out loud at the thought of doing so within a stone's +throw of a fortune and nose-shot of fifty kegs of brandy. + +As he did so, Bissonnette gave a little cry. They were coming on to +Cap de Gloire at the moment, and Tarboe and Joan, looking, saw a boat +standing off towards the mainland, as if waiting for them. Tarboe gave +a roar, and called to Joan to take the tiller. He snatched a glass and +levelled it. + +"A Government tug!" he said, "and tete de Diable! there's your tall +Lafarge among 'em, Joan! I'd know him by his height miles off." + +Joan lost colour a trifle and then got courage. "Pshaw," she said, "what +does he want?" + +"Want? Want? He wants the Ninety-Nine and her cargo; but by the sun of +my soul, he'll get her across the devil's gridiron! See here, my girl, +this ain't any sport with you aboard. Bissonnette and I could make a +stand for it alone, but what's to become of you? I don't want you mixed +up in the mess." + +The girl was eyeing the Government boat. "But I'm in it, and I can't be +out of it, and I don't want to be out now that I am in. Let me see the +glass." She took it in one hand. "Yes, it must be M'sieu' Lafarge," +she said, frowning. "He might have stayed out of this." + +"When he's got orders, he has to go," answered her father; "but he must +look out, for a gun is a gun, and I don't pick and choose. Besides, I've +no contraband this cruise, and I'll let no one stick me up." + +"There are six or seven of them," said Joan debatingly. + +"Bring her up to the wind," shouted Tarboe to Bissonnette. The mainsail +closed up several points, the Ninety-Nine slackened her pace and edged in +closer to the land. "Now, my girl," said Tarboe, "this is how it stands. +If we fight, there's someone sure to be hurt, and if I'm hurt, where'll +you be?" + +Bissonnette interposed. "We've got nothing contraband. The gold is +ours." + +"Trust that crew--but no!" cried Tarboe, with an oath. "The Government +would hold the rhino for possible owners, and then give it to a convent +or something. They shan't put foot here. They've said war, and they'll +get it. They're signalling us to stop, and they're bearing down. There +goes a shot!" + +The girl had been watching the Government boat coolly. Now that it began +to bear on, she answered her father's question. + +"Captain," she said, like a trusted mate, "we'll bluff them." Her eyes +flashed with the intelligence of war. "Here, quick, I'll take the +tiller. They haven't seen Bissonnette yet; he sits low. Call all hands +on deck--shout! Then, see: Loce will go down the middle hatch, get a +gun, come up with it on his shoulder, and move on to the fo'castle. Then +he'll drop down the fo'castle hatch, get along to the middle hatch, and +come up again with the gun, now with his cap, now without it, now with +his coat, now without it. He'll do that till we've got twenty or thirty +men on deck! They'll think we've been laying for them, and they'll not +come on--you see!" + +Tarboe ripped out an oath. "It's a great game," he said, and a moment +afterwards, in response to his roars, Bissonnette came up the hatch with +his gun showing bravely; then again and again, now with his cap, now +without, now with his coat, now with none, anon with a tarpaulin over his +shoulders grotesquely. Meanwhile Tarboe trained his one solitary little +cannon on the enemy, roaring his men into place. + +From the tug it seemed that a large and well-armed crew were ranging +behind the bulwarks of the Ninety-Nine. Mr. Martin, the inspector, saw +with alarm Bissonnette's constantly appearing rifle. + +"They've arranged a plant for us, Mr. Lafarge. What do you think we'd +better do?" he asked. + +"Fight!" answered Lafarge laconically. He wished to put himself on +record, for he was the only one on board who saw through the ruse. + +"But I've counted at least twenty men, all armed, and we've only five." + +"As you please, sir," said Lafarge bluntly, angry at being tricked, but +inwardly glad to be free of the business, for he pictured to himself that +girl at the tiller--he had seen her as she went aft--in a police court at +Quebec. Yet his instinct for war and his sense of duty impelled him to +say: "Still, sir, fight!" + +"No, no, Mr. Lafarge," excitedly rejoined his chief. "I cannot risk it. +We must go back for more men and bring along a Gatling. Slow down!" he +called. Lafarge turned on his heel with an oath, and stood watching the +Ninety-Nine. + +"She'll laugh at me till I die!" he said to himself presently, as the +tug turned up stream and pointed for Quebec. "Well, I'm jiggered!" he +added, as a cannon shot came ringing over the water after them. He was +certain also that he heard loud laughter. No doubt he was right; for as +the tug hurried on, Tarboe ran to Joan, hugged her like a bear, and +roared till he ached. Then she paid out the sheet, they clapped on all +sail, and travelled in the track of the enemy. + +Tarboe's spirit was roused. He was not disposed to let his enemy off on +even such terms, so he now turned to Joan and said: "What say you to a +chase of the gentleman?" + +Joan was in a mood for such a dare-devil adventure. For three people, +one of whom was a girl, to give chase to a well-manned, well-armed +Government boat was too good a relish to be missed. Then, too, it had +just occurred to her that a parley would be amusing, particularly if she +and Lafarge were the truce-bearers. So she said: "That is very good." + +"Suppose they should turn and fight?" suggested Bissonnette. + +"That's true--here's m'am'selle," agreed Tarboe. "But, see," said Joan. +"If we chase them and call upon them to surrender--and after all, we can +prove that we had nothing contraband--what a splendid game it'll be!" +Mischief flicked in her eyes. + +"Good!" said Tarboe. "To-morrow I shall be a rich man, and then they'll +not dare to come again." + +So saying, he gave the sail to the wind, and away the Ninety-Nine went +after the one ewe lamb of the Government. + +Mr. Martin saw her coming, and gave word for all steam. It would be a +pretty game, for the wind was in Tarboe's favour, and the general +advantage was not greatly with the tug. Mr. Martin was now anxious +indeed to get out of the way of the smuggler. Lafarge made one +restraining effort, then settled into an ironical mood. Yet a half-dozen +times he was inclined to blurt out to Martin what he believed was the +truth. A man, a boy, and a girl to bluff them that way! In his bones he +felt that it was the girl who was behind this thing. Of one matter he +was sure--they had no contraband stuff on board, or Tarboe would not have +brought his daughter along. He could not understand the attitude, for +Tarboe would scarcely have risked the thing out of mere bravado. Why not +call a truce? Perhaps he could solve the problem. They were keeping a +tolerably safe distance apart, and there was no great danger of the +Ninety-Nine overhauling them even if it so willed; but Mr. Martin did not +know that. + +What he said to his chief had its effect, and soon there was a white flag +flying on the tug. It was at once answered with a white handkerchief of +Joan's. Then the tug slowed up, the Ninety-Nine came on gaily, and at a +good distance came up to the wind, and stood off. + +"What do you want?" asked Tarboe through his speaking-tube. + +"A parley," called Mr. Martin. + +"Good; send an officer," answered Tarboe. + +A moment after, Lafarge was in a boat rowing over to meet another boat +rowed by Joan alone, who, dressed in a suit of Bissonnette's, had +prevailed on her father to let her go. + +The two boats nearing each other, Joan stood up, saluting, and Lafarge +did the same. + +"Good-day, m'sieu'," said Joan, with assumed brusqueness, mischief +lurking about her mouth. "What do you want?" + +"Good-day, monsieur; I did not expect to confer with you." + +"M'sieu'," said Joan, with well-acted dignity, "if you prefer to confer +with the captain or Mr. Bissonnette, whom I believe you know in the +matter of a pail, and--" + +"No, no; pardon me, monsieur," said Lafarge more eagerly than was good +for the play, "I am glad to confer with you, you will understand--you +will understand--" He paused. + +"What will I understand?" + +"You will understand that I understand!" Lafarge waved meaningly towards +the Ninety-Nine, but it had no effect at all. Joan would not give the +game over into his hands. + +"That sounds like a charade or a puzzle game. We are gentlemen on a +serious errand, aren't we?" + +"Yes," answered Lafarge, "perfect gentlemen on a perfectly serious +errand!" + +"Very well, m'sieu'. Have you come to surrender?" The splendid +impudence of the thing stunned Lafarge, but he said: "I suppose one or +the other ought to surrender; and naturally," he added with slow point, +"it should be the weaker." + +"Very well. Our captain is willing to consider conditions. You came +down on us to take us--a quiet craft sailing in free waters. You attack +us without cause. We summon all hands, and you run. We follow, you +ask for truce. It is granted. We are not hard--no. We only want our +rights. Admit them; we'll make surrender easy, and the matter is over." + +Lafarge gasped. She was forcing his hand. She would not understand his +oblique suggestions. He saw only one way now, and that was to meet her, +boast for boast. + +"I haven't come to surrender," he said, "but to demand." + +"M'sieu'," Joan said grandly, "there's nothing more to say. Carry word +to your captain that we'll overhaul him by sundown, and sink him before +supper." + +Lafarge burst out laughing. + +"Well, by the Lord, but you're a swashbuckler, Joan--" + +"M'sieu'--" + +"Oh, nonsense! I tell you, nonsense! Let's have over with this, my +girl. You're the cleverest woman on the continent, but there's a limit +to everything. Here, tell me now, and if you answer me straight I'll say +no more." + +"M'sieu', I am here to consider conditions, not to--" "Oh, for God's +sake, Joan! Tell me now, have you got anything contraband on board? +There'll be a nasty mess about the thing, for me and all of us, and why +can't we compromise? I tell you honestly we'd have come on, if I hadn't +seen you aboard." + +Joan turned her head back with a laugh. "My poor m'sieu'! You have such +bad luck. Contraband? Let me see? Liquors and wines and tobacco are +contraband. Is it not so?" Lafarge nodded. + +"Is money--gold--contraband?" + +"Money? No; of course not, and you know it. Why won't you be sensible? +You're getting me into a bad hole, and--" + +"I want to see how you'll come out. If you come out well--" She paused +quaintly. + +"Yes, if I come out well--" + +"If you come out very well, and we do not sink you before supper, I may +ask you to come and see me." + +"H'm! Is that all? After spoiling my reputation, I'm to be let come and +see you." + +"Isn't that enough to start with? What has spoiled your reputation?" + +"A man, a boy, and a slip of a girl." He looked meaningly enough at her +now. She laughed. "See," he added; "give me a chance. Let me search +the Ninety-Nine for contraband,--that's all I've got to do with,--and +then I can keep quiet about the rest. If there's no contraband, whatever +else there is, I'll hold my tongue." + +"I've told you what there is." + +He did not understand. "Will you let me search?" Joan's eyes flashed. +"Once and for all, no, Orvay Lafarge. I am the daughter of a man whom +you and your men would have killed or put in the dock. He's been a +smuggler, and I know it. Who has he robbed? Not the poor, not the +needy; but a rich Government that robs also. Well, in the hour when he +ceases to be a smuggler for ever, armed men come to take him. Why didn't +they do so before? Why so pious all at once? No; I am first the +daughter of my father, and afterwards--" + +"And afterwards?" + +"What to-morrow may bring forth." + +Lafarge became very serious. "I must go back. Mr. Martin is signalling, +and your father is calling. I do not understand, but you're the one +woman in the world for my money, and I'm ready to stand by that and leave +the customs to-morrow if need be." + +Joan's eyes blazed, her cheek was afire. "Leave it to-day. Leave it +now. Yes; that's my one condition. If you want me, and you say you do, +come aboard the Ninety-Nine, and for to-day be one of us-to-morrow what +you will." + +"What I will? What I will, Joan? Do you mean it?" + +"Yes. Pshaw! Your duty? Don't I know how the Ministers and the +officers have done their duty at Quebec? It's all nonsense. You must +make your choice once for all now." + +Lafarge stood a moment thinking. "Joan, I'll do it. I'd go hunting in +hell at your bidding. But see. Everything's changed. I couldn't fight +against you, but I can fight for you. All must be open now. You've said +there's no contraband. Well, I'll tell Mr. Martin so, but I'll tell him +also that you've only a crew of two--" + +"Of three, now!" + +"Of three! I will do my duty in that, then resign and come over to you, +if I can." + +If you can? You mean that they may fire on you?" + +"I can't tell what they may do. But I must deal fair." + +Joan's face was grave. "Very well, I will wait for you here." + +"They might hit you." + +"But no. They can't hit a wall. Go on, my dear." They saluted, and, +as Lafarge turned away, Joan said, with a little mocking laugh, +"Tell him that he must surrender, or we'll sink him before supper." + +Lafarge nodded, and drew away quickly towards the tug. His interview +with Mr. Martin was brief, and he had tendered his resignation, though it +was disgracefully informal, and was over the side of the boat again and +rowing quickly away before his chief recovered his breath. Then Mr. +Martin got a large courage. He called on his men to fire when Lafarge +was about two hundred and fifty feet from the tug. The shots rattled +about him. He turned round coolly and called out, "Coward-we'll sink you +before supper!" + +A minute afterwards there came another shot, and an oar dropped from his +hand. But now Joan was rowing rapidly towards him, and presently was +alongside. + +"Quick, jump inhere," she said. He did so, and she rowed on quickly. +Tarboe did not understand, but now his blood was up, and as another +volley sent bullets dropping around the two he gave the Ninety-Nine to +the wind, and she came bearing down smartly to them. In a few moments +they were safely on board, and Joan explained. Tarboe grasped Lafarge's +unmaimed hand,--the other Joan was caring for,--and swore that fighting +was the only thing left now. + +Mr. Martin had said the same, but when he saw the Ninety-Nine determined, +menacing, and coming on, he became again uncertain, and presently gave +orders to make for the lighthouse on the opposite side of the river. He +could get over first, for the Ninety-Nine would not have the wind so much +in her favour, and there entrench himself; for even yet Bissonnette amply +multiplied was in his mind--Lafarge had not explained that away. He was +in the neighbourhood of some sunken rocks of which he and his man at the +wheel did not know accurately, and in making what he thought was a clear +channel he took a rock with great force, for they were going full steam +ahead. Then came confusion, and in getting out the one boat it was +swamped and a man nearly drowned. Meanwhile the tug was fast sinking. + +While they were throwing off their clothes, the Ninety-Nine came down, +and stood off. On one hand was the enemy, on the other the water, with +the shore half a mile distant. + +"Do you surrender?" called out Tarboe. + +"Can't we come aboard without that?" feebly urged Mr. Martin. + +"I'll see you damned first, Mr. Martin. Come quick, or I'll give you +what for." + +"We surrender," answered the officer gently. + +A few minutes later he and his men were on board, with their rifles +stacked in a corner at Bissonnette's hand. + +Then Tarboe brought the Ninety-Nine close to the wreck, and with his +little cannon put a ball into her. This was the finish. She shook her +nose, shivered, shot down like a duck, and was gone. + +Mr. Martin was sad even to tears. + +"Now, my beauties," said Tarboe, "now that I've got you safe, I'll show +you the kind of cargo I've got." A moment afterwards he hoisted a keg on +deck. "Think that's whisky?" he asked. "Lift it, Mr. Martin." Mr. +Martin obeyed. "Shake it," he added. + +Mr. Martin did so. "Open it, Mr. Martin." He held out a hatchet-hammer. +The next moment a mass of gold pieces yellowed to their eyes. Mr. Martin +fell back, breathing hard. + +"Is that contraband, Mr. Martin?" + +"Treasure-trove," humbly answered the stricken officer. + +"That's it, and in a month, Mr. Martin, I'll be asking the chief of your +department to dinner." + +Meanwhile Lafarge saw how near he had been to losing a wife and a +fortune. Arrived off Isle of Day; Tarboe told Mr. Martin and his men +that if they said "treasure-trove" till they left the island their live +would not be worth "a tinker's damn." When the had sworn, he took them +to Angel Point, fed then royally, gave them excellent liquor to drink, +and sent them in a fishing-smack with Bissonnette to Quebec where, +arriving, they told strange tales. + +Bissonnette bore a letter to a certain banker in Quebec, who already had +done business with Tarboe, and next midnight Tarboe himself, with Gobal, +Lafarge, Bissonnette, and another, came knocking at the banker's door, +each carrying a keg on his shoulder and armed to the teeth. And, what +was singular two stalwart police-officers walked behind with comfortable +and approving looks. + +A month afterwards Lafarge and Joan were married in the parish church at +Isle of Days, and it was said that Mr. Martin, who, for some strange +reason, was allowed to retain his position in the customs, sent a +present. The wedding ended with a sensation, for just as the benediction +was pronounced a loud report was heard beneath the floor of the church. +There was great commotion, but Tarboe whispered in the curb's ear, and he +blushing, announced that it was the bursting of a barrel. A few minutes +afterwards the people of the parish knew the old hiding-place of Tarboe's +contraband, and, though the cure rebuked them, they roared with laughter +at the knowledge. + +"So droll, so droll, our Tarboe there!" they shouted, for already they +began to look upon him as their Seigneur. + +In time the cure forgave him also. + +Tarboe seldom left Isle of Days, save when he went to visit his daughter, +in St. Louis Street, Quebec, not far from the Parliament House, where +Orvay Lafarge is a member of the Ministry. The ex-smuggler was a member +of the Assembly for three months, but after defeating his own party on a +question of tariff, he gave a portrait of himself to the Chamber, and +threw his seat into the hands of his son-in-law. At the Belle +Chatelaine, where he often goes, he sometimes asks Bissonnette to play +"The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose." + + + + + + +ROMANY OF THE SNOWS + +I + +When old Throng the trader, trembling with sickness and misery, got on +his knees to Captain Halby and groaned, "She didn't want to go; they +dragged her off; you'll fetch her back, won't ye?--she always had a fancy +for you, cap'n," Pierre shrugged a shoulder and said: + +"But you stole her when she was in her rock-a-by, my Throng--you and your +Manette." + +"Like a match she was--no bigger," continued the old man. "Lord, how +that stepmother bully-ragged her, and her father didn't care a darn. +He'd half a dozen others--Manette and me hadn't none. We took her and +used her like as if she was an angel, and we brought her off up here. +Haven't we set store by her? Wasn't it 'cause we was lonely an' loved +her we took her? Hasn't everybody stood up and said there wasn't anyone +like her in the North? Ain't I done fair by her always--ain't I? An' +now, when this cough 's eatin' my life out, and Manette 's gone, and +there ain't a soul but Duc the trapper to put a blister on to me, them +brutes ride up from over the border, call theirselves her brothers, an' +drag her off!" + +He was still on his knees. Pierre reached over and lightly kicked a +moccasined foot. + +"Get up, Jim Throng," he said. "Holy! do you think the law moves because +an old man cries? Is it in the statutes?--that's what the law says. +Does it come within the act? Is it a trespass--an assault and battery? +--a breach of the peace?--a misdemeanour? Victoria--So and So: that's +how the law talks. Get on your knees to Father Corraine, not to Captain +Halby, Jimmy Throng." + +Pierre spoke in a half-sinister, ironical way, for between him and +Captain Halby's Riders of the Plains there was no good feeling. More +than once he had come into conflict with them, more than once had they +laid their hands on him--and taken them off again in due time. He had +foiled them as to men they wanted; he had defied them--but he had helped +them too, when it seemed right to him; he had sided with them once or +twice when to do so was perilous to himself. He had sneered at them, he +did not like them, nor they him. The sum of it was, he thought them +brave--and stupid; and he knew that the law erred as often as it set +things right. + +The Trader got up and stood between the two men, coughing much, his face +straining, his eyes bloodshot, as he looked anxiously from Pierre to +Halby. He was the sad wreck of a strong man. Nothing looked strong +about him now save his head, which, with its long grey hair, seemed badly +balanced by the thin neck, through which the terrible cough was hacking. + +"Only half a lung left," he stammered, as soon as he could speak, "an' +Duc can't fix the boneset, camomile, and whisky, as she could. An' he +waters the whisky--curse-his-soul!" The last three words were spoken +through another spasm of coughing. "An' the blister--how he mucks the +blister!" + +Pierre sat back on the table, laughing noiselessly, his white teeth +shining. Halby, with one foot on a bench, was picking at the fur on his +sleeve thoughtfully. His face was a little drawn, his lips were tight- +pressed, and his eyes had a light of excitement. Presently he +straightened himself, and, after a half-malicious look at Pierre, +he said to Throng: + +"Where are they, do you say?" + +"They're at"--the old man coughed hard--"at Fort O'Battle." + +"What are they doing there?" + +"Waitin' till spring, when they'll fetch their cattle up an' settle +there." + +"They want--Lydia--to keep house for them?" The old man writhed. + +"Yes, God's sake, that's it! An' they want Liddy to marry a devil +called Borotte, with a thousand cattle or so--Pito the courier told me +yesterday. Pito saw her, an' he said she was white like a sheet, an' +called out to him as he went by. Only half a lung I got, an' her boneset +and camomile 'd save it for a bit, mebbe--mebbe!" + +"It's clear," said Halby, "that they trespassed, and they haven't proved +their right to her." + +"Tonnerre, what a thinker!" said Pierre, mocking. Halby did not notice. +His was a solid sense of responsibility. + +"She is of age?" he half asked, half mused. + +"She's twenty-one," answered the old man, with difficulty. + +"Old enough to set the world right," suggested Pierre, still mocking. + +"She was forced away, she regarded you as her natural protector, she +believed you her father: they broke the law," said the soldier. + +"There was Moses, and Solomon, and Caesar, and Socrates, and now....!" +murmured Pierre in assumed abstraction. + +A red spot burned on Halby's high cheekbone for a minute, but he +persistently kept his temper. + +"I'm expected elsewhere," he said at last. "I'm only one man, yet I wish +I could go to-day--even alone. But--" + +"But you have a heart," said Pierre. "How wonderful--a heart! And +there's the half a lung, and the boneset and camomile tea, and the +blister, and the girl with an eye like a spot of rainbow, and the sacred +law in a Remington rifle! Well, well! And to do it in the early +morning--to wait in the shelter of the trees till some go to look after +the horses, then enter the house, arrest those inside, and lay low for +the rest." + +Halby looked over at Pierre astonished. Here was raillery and good +advice all in a piece. + +"It isn't wise to go alone, for if there's trouble and I should go down, +who's to tell the truth? Two could do it; but one--no, it isn't wise, +though it would look smart enough." + +"Who said to go alone?" asked Pierre, scrawling on the table with a +burnt match. + +"I have no men." + +Pierre looked up at the wall. + +"Throng has a good Snider there," he said. "Bosh! Throng can't go." + +The old man coughed and strained. + +"If it wasn't--only-half a lung, and I could carry the boneset 'long with +us." + +Pierre slid off the table, came to the old man, and, taking him by the +arms, pushed him gently into a chair. "Sit down; don't be a fool, +Throng," he said. Then he turned to Halby: "You're a magistrate-- +make me a special constable; I'll go, monsieur le capitaine--of no +company." + +Halby stared. He knew Pierre's bravery, his ingenuity and daring. But +this was the last thing he expected: that the malicious, railing little +half-breed would work with him and the law. Pierre seemed to understand +his thoughts, for he said: "It is not for you. I am sick for adventure, +and then there is mademoiselle--such a finger she has for a ven'son +pudding." + +Without a word Halby wrote on a leaf in his notebook, and presently +handed the slip to Pierre. "That's your commission as a special +constable," he said, "and here's the seal on it." He handed over a +pistol. + +Pierre raised his eyebrows at it, but Halby continued: "It has the +Government mark. But you'd better bring Throng's rifle too." + +Throng sat staring at the two men, his hands nervously shifting on his +knees. "Tell Liddy," he said, "that the last batch of bread was sour-- +Duc ain't no good-an' that I ain't had no relish sence she left. Tell +her the cough gits lower down all the time. 'Member when she tended that +felon o' yourn, Pierre?" + +Pierre looked at a sear on his finger and nodded. "She cut it too young; +but she had the nerve! When do you start, captain? It's an eighty-mile +ride." + +"At once," was the reply. "We can sleep to-night in the Jim-a-long-Jo" +(a hut which the Company had built between two distant posts), "and get +there at dawn day after to-morrow. The snow is light and we can travel +quick. I have a good horse, and you--" + +"I have my black Tophet. He'll travel with your roan as on one snaffle- +bar. That roan--you know where he come from?" + +"From the Dolright stud, over the Border." + +"That's wrong. He come from Greystop's paddock, where my Tophet was +foaled; they are brothers. Yours was stole and sold to the Gover'ment; +mine was bought by good hard money. The law the keeper of stolen goods, +eh? But these two will go cinch to cinch all the way, like two brothers +--like you and me." + +He could not help the touch of irony in his last words: he saw the +amusing side of things, and all humour in him had a strain of the +sardonic. + +"Brothers-in-law for a day or two," answered Halby drily. + +Within two hours they were ready to start. Pierre had charged Duc the +incompetent upon matters for the old man's comfort, and had himself, with +a curious sort of kindness, steeped the boneset and camomile in whisky, +and set a cup of it near his chair. Then he had gone up to Throng's +bedroom and straightened out and shook and "made" the corn-husk bed, +which had gathered into lumps and rolls. Before he came down he opened +a door near by and entered another room, shutting the door, and sitting +down on a chair. A stovepipe ran through the room, and it was warm, +though the window was frosted and the world seemed shut out. He looked +round slowly, keenly interested. There was a dressing-table made of an +old box; it was covered with pink calico, with muslin over this. A cheap +looking-glass on it was draped with muslin and tied at the top with a bit +of pink ribbon. A common bone comb lay near the glass, and beside it a +beautiful brush with an ivory back and handle. This was the only +expensive thing in the room. He wondered, but did not go near it yet. +There was a little eight-day clock on a bracket which had been made by +hand--pasteboard darkened with umber and varnished; a tiny little set of +shelves made of the wood of cigar-boxes; and--alas, the shifts of poverty +to be gay!--an easy-chair made of the staves of a barrel and covered with +poor chintz. Then there was a photograph or two, in little frames made +from the red cedar of cigar-boxes, with decorations of putty, varnished, +and a long panel screen of birch-bark of Indian workmanship. Some +dresses hung behind the door. The bedstead was small, the frame was of +hickory, with no footboard, ropes making the support for the husk tick. +Across the foot lay a bedgown and a pair of stockings. + +Pierre looked long, at first curiously; but after a little his forehead +gathered and his lips drew in a little, as if he had a twinge of pain. +He got up, went over near the bed, and picked up a hairpin. Then he came +back to the chair and sat down, turning it about in his fingers, still +looking abstractedly at the floor. + +"Poor Lucy!" he said presently; "the poor child! Ah, what a devil I was +then--so long ago!" + +This solitary room--Lydia's--had brought back the time he went to the +room of his own wife, dead by her own hand after an attempt to readjust +the broken pieces of life, and sat and looked at the place which had been +hers, remembering how he had left her with her wet face turned to the +wall, and never saw her again till she was set free for ever. Since +that time he had never sat in a room sacred to a woman alone. + +"What a fool, what a fool, to think!" he said at last, standing up; "but +this girl must be saved. She must have her home here again." + +Unconsciously he put the hairpin in his pocket, walked over to the +dressing-table and picked up the hair-brush. On its back was the legend, +"L. T. from C. H." He gave a whistle. + +"So-so?" he said, "'C. H.' M'sieu' le capitaine, is it like that?" + +A year before, Lydia had given Captain Halby a dollar to buy her a hair- +brush at Winnipeg, and he had brought her one worth ten dollars. She had +beautiful hair, and what pride she had in using this brush! Every Sunday +morning she spent a long time in washing, curling, and brushing her hair, +and every night she tended it lovingly, so that it was a splendid rich +brown like her eye, coiling nobly above her plain, strong face with its +good colour. + +Pierre, glancing in the glass, saw Captain Halby's face looking over his +shoulder. It startled him, and he turned round. There was the face +looking out from a photograph that hung on the wall in the recess where +the bed was. He noted now that the likeness hung where the girl could +see it the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning. + +"So far as that, eh!" he said. "And m'sieu' is a gentleman, too. We +shall see what he will do: he has his chance now, once for all." + +He turned, came to the door, softly opened it, passed out, and shut it, +then descended the stairs, and in half an hour was at the door with +Captain Halby, ready to start. It was an exquisite winter day, even in +its bitter coldness. The sun was shining clear and strong, all the +plains glistened and shook like quicksilver, and the vast blue cup of sky +seemed deeper than it had ever been. But the frost ate the skin like an +acid, and when Throng came to the door Pierre drove him back instantly +from the air. + +"I only-wanted--to say--to Liddy," hacked the old man, "that I'm +thinkin'--a little m'lasses 'd kinder help--the boneset an' camomile. +Tell her that the cattle 'll all be hers--an'--the house, an' I ain't +got no one but--" + +But Pierre pushed him back and shut the door, saying: "I'll tell her what +a fool you are, Jimmy Throng." The old man, as he sat down awkwardly in +his chair, with Duc stolidly lighting his pipe and watching him, said to +himself: "Yes, I be a durn fool; I be, I be!" over and over again. And +when the dog got up from near the stove and came near to him, he added: +"I be, Touser; I be a durn fool, for I ought to ha' stole two or three, +an' then I'd not be alone, an' nothin' but sour bread an' pork to eat. +I ought to ha' stole three." + +"Ah, Manette ought to have given you some of your own, it's true, that!" +said Duc stolidly. "You never was a real father, Jim." + +"Liddy got to look like me; she got to look like Manette and me, I tell +ye!" said the old man hoarsely. Duc laughed in his stupid way. "Look +like you? Look like you, Jim, with a face to turn milk sour? Ho, ho!" + +Throng rose, his face purple with anger, and made as if to catch Duc by +the throat, but a fit of coughing seized him, and presently blood showed +on his lips. Duc, with a rough gentleness, wiped off the blood and put +the whisky-and-herbs to the sick man's lips, saying, in a fatherly way: + +"For why you do like that? You're a fool, Jimmy!" + +"I be, I be," said the old man in a whisper, and let his hand rest on +Duc's shoulder. + +"I'll fix the bread sweet next time, Jimmy." + +"No, no," said the husky voice peevishly. "She'll do it--Liddy'll do it. +Liddy's comin'." + +"All right, Jimmy. All right." + +After a moment Throng shook his head feebly and said, scarcely above a +whisper: + +"But I be a durn fool--when she's not here." + +Duc nodded and gave him more whisky and herbs. "My feet's cold," said +the old man, and Duc wrapped a bearskin round his legs. + + + +II + +For miles Pierre and Halby rode without a word. Then they got down and +walked for a couple of miles, to bring the blood into their legs again. + +"The old man goes to By-by bientot," said Pierre at last. + +"You don't think he'll last long?" + +"Maybe ten days; maybe one. If we don't get the girl, out goes his +torchlight straight." + +"She's been very good to him." + +"He's been on his knees to her all her life." + +"There'll be trouble out of this, though." + +"Pshaw! The girl is her own master." + +"I mean, someone will probably get hurt over there." He nodded in the +direction of Fort O'Battle. + +"That's in the game. The girl is worth fighting for, hein?" + +"Of course, and the law must protect her. It's a free country." + +"So true, my captain," murmured Pierre drily. "It is wonderful what a +man will do for the law." + +The tone struck Halby. Pierre was scanning the horizon abstractedly. + +"You are always hitting at the law," he said. "Why do you stand by it +now?" + +"For the same reason as yourself." + +"What is that?" + +"She has your picture in her room, she has my lucky dollar in her +pocket." + +Halby's face flushed, and then he turned and looked steadily into +Pierre's eyes. + +"We'd better settle this thing at once. If you're going to Fort O'Battle +because you've set your fancy there, you'd better go back now. That's +straight. You and I can't sail in the same boat. I'll go alone, so give +me the pistol." + +Pierre laughed softly, and waved the hand back. "T'sh! What a high- +cock-a-lorum! You want to do it all yourself--to fill the eye of the +girl alone, and be tucked away to By-by for your pains--mais, quelle +folie! See: you go for law and love; I go for fun and Jimmy Throng. +The girl? Pshaw! she would come out right in the end, without you or +me. But the old man with half a lung--that's different. He must have +sweet bread in his belly when he dies, and the girl must make it for him. +She shall brush her hair with the ivory brush by Sunday morning." + +Halby turned sharply. + +"You've been spying," he said. "You've been in her room--you--" + +Pierre put out his hand and stopped the word on Halby's lips. + +"Slow, slow," he said; "we are both--police to-day. Voila! we must not +fight. There is Throng and the girl to think of." Suddenly, with a soft +fierceness, he added: "If I looked in her room, what of that? In all the +North is there a woman to say I wrong her? No. Well, what if I carry +her room in my eye; does that hurt her or you?" + +Perhaps something of the loneliness of the outlaw crept into Pierre's +voice for an instant, for Halby suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and +said: "Let's drop the thing, Pierre." + +Pierre looked at him musingly. + +"When Throng is put to By-by what will you do?" he asked. + +"I will marry her, if she'll have me." + +"But she is prairie-born, and you!" + +"I'm a prairie-rider." + +After a moment Pierre said, as if to himself: "So quiet and clean, and +the print calico and muslin, and the ivory brush!" + +It is hard to say whether he was merely working on Halby that he be true +to the girl, or was himself softhearted for the moment. He had a curious +store of legend and chanson, and he had the Frenchman's power of applying +them, though he did it seldom. But now he said in a half monotone: + + "Have you seen the way I have built my nest? + (O brave and tall is the Grand Seigneur!) + I have trailed the East, I have searched the West, + (O clear of eye is the Grand Seigneur!) + From South and North I have brought the best: + The feathers fine from an eagle's crest, + The silken threads from a prince's vest, + The warm rose-leaf from a maiden's breast + (O long he bideth, the Grand Seigneur!)." + +They had gone scarce a mile farther when Pierre, chancing to turn round, +saw a horseman riding hard after them. They drew up, and soon the man-- +a Rider of the Plains--was beside them. He had stopped at Throng's to +find Halby, and had followed them. Murder had been committed near the +border, and Halby was needed at once. Halby stood still, numb with +distress, for there was Lydia. He turned to Pierre in dismay. Pierre's +face lighted up with the spirit of fresh adventure. Desperate +enterprises roused him; the impossible had a charm for him. + +"I will go to Fort O'Battle," he said. "Give me another pistol." + +"You cannot do it alone," said Halby, hope, however, in his voice. + +"I will do it, or it will do me, voila!" Pierre replied. Halby passed +over a pistol. + +"I'll never forget it, on my honour, if you do it," he said. + +Pierre mounted his horse and said, as if a thought had struck him: "If I +stand for the law in this, will you stand against it some time for me?" + +Halby hesitated, then said, holding out his hand, "Yes, if it's nothing +dirty." + +Pierre smiled. "Clean tit for clean tat," he said, touching Halby's +fingers, and then, with a gesture and an au revoir, put his horse to the +canter, and soon a surf of snow was rising at two points on the prairie, +as the Law trailed south and east. + +That night Pierre camped in the Jim-a-long-Jo, finding there firewood in +plenty, and Tophet was made comfortable in the lean-to. Within another +thirty hours he was hid in the woods behind Fort O'Battle, having +travelled nearly all night. He saw the dawn break and the beginning of +sunrise as he watched the Fort, growing every moment colder, while his +horse trembled and whinnied softly, suffering also. At last he gave a +little grunt of satisfaction, for he saw two men come out of the Fort and +go to the corral. He hesitated a minute longer, then said: "I'll not +wait," patted his horse's neck, pulled the blanket closer round him, and +started for the Fort. He entered the yard--it was empty. He went to the +door of the Fort, opened it, entered, shut it, locked it softly, and put +the key in his pocket. Then he passed through into a room at the end of +the small hallway. Three men rose from seats by the fire as he did so, +and one said: "Hullo, who're you?" Another added: "It's Pretty Pierre." + +Pierre looked at the table laid for breakfast, and said: "Where's Lydia +Throng?" + +The elder of the three brothers replied: "There's no Lydia Throng here. +There's Lydia Bontoff, though, and in another week she'll be Lydia +something else." + +"What does she say about it herself?" "You've no call to know." + +"You stole her, forced her from Throng's-her father's house." + +"She wasn't Throng's; she was a Bontoff--sister of us. + +"Well, she says Throng, and Throng it's got to be." + +"What have you got to say about it?" + +At that moment Lydia appeared at the door leading from the kitchen. + +"Whatever she has to say," answered Pierre. + +"Who're you talking for?" + +"For her, for Throng, for the law." + +"The law--by gosh, that's good! You, you darned gambler; you scum!" +said Caleb, the brother who knew him. + +Pierre showed all the intelligent, resolute coolness of a trained officer +of the law. He heard a little cry behind him, and stepping sideways, and +yet not turning his back on the men, he saw Lydia. + +"Pierre! Pierre!" she said in a half-frightened way, yet with a sort of +pleasure lighting up her face; and she stepped forward to him. One of +the brothers was about to pull her away, but Pierre whipped out his +commission. "Wait," he said. "That's enough. I'm for the law; +I belong to the mounted police. I have come for the girl you stole." + +The elder brother snatched the paper and read. Then he laughed loud and +long. "So you've come to fetch her away," he said, "and this is how you +do it!"--he shook the paper. "Well, by--" Suddenly he stopped. "Come," +he said, "have a drink, and don't be a dam' fool. She's our sister,--old +Throng stole her, and she's goin' to marry our partner. Here, Caleb, +fish out the brandy-wine," he added to his younger brother, who went to a +cupboard and brought the bottle. + +Pierre, waving the liquor away, said quietly to the girl: "You wish to go +back to your father, to Jimmy Throng?" He then gave her Throng's +message, and added: "He sits there rocking in the big chair and coughing +--coughing! And then there's the picture on the wall upstairs and the +little ivory brush--" + +She put out her hands towards him. "I hate them all here," she said. +"I never knew them. They forced me away. I have no father but Jimmy +Throng. I will not stay," she flashed out in sudden anger to the others; +"I'll kill myself and all of you before I marry that Borotte." + +Pierre could hear a man tramping about upstairs. Caleb knocked on the +stove-pipe, and called to him to come down. Pierre guessed it was +Borotte. This would add one more factor to the game. He must move at +once. He suddenly slipped a pistol into the girl's hand, and with a +quick word to her, stepped towards the door. The elder brother sprang +between--which was what he looked for. By this time every man had a +weapon showing, snatched from wall and shelf. + +Pierre was cool. He said: "Remember, I am for the law. I am not one +man. You are thieves now; if you fight and kill, you will get the rope, +every one. Move from the door, or I'll fire. The girl comes with me." +He had heard a door open behind him, now there was an oath and a report, +and a bullet grazed his cheek and lodged in the wall beyond. He dared +not turn round, for the other men were facing him. He did not move, but +the girl did. "Coward!" she said, and raised her pistol at Borotte, +standing with her back against Pierre's. + +There was a pause, in which no one stirred, and then the girl, slowly +walking up to Borotte, her pistol levelled, said: "You low coward--to +shoot a man from behind; and you want to be a decent girl's husband! +These men that say they're my brothers are brutes, but you're a sneak. +If you stir a step I'll fire." + +The cowardice of Borotte was almost ridiculous. He dared not harm the +girl, and her brothers could not prevent her harming him. Here there +came a knocking at the front door. The other brothers had come, and +found it locked. Pierre saw the crisis, and acted instantly. "The girl +and I--we will fight you to the end," he said, "and then what's left of +you the law will fight to the end. Come," he added, "the old man can't +live a week. When he's gone then you can try again. She will have what +he owns. Quick, or I arrest you all, and then--" + +"Let her go," said Borotte; "it ain't no use." Presently the elder +brother broke out laughing. "Damned if I thought the girl had the pluck, +an' damned if I thought Borotte was a crawler. Put an eye out of him, +Liddy, an' come to your brother's arms. Here," he added to the others, +"up with your popguns; this shindy's off; and the girl goes back till the +old man tucks up. Have a drink," he added to Pierre, as he stood his +rifle in a corner and came to the table. + +In half an hour Pierre and the girl were on their way, leaving Borotte +quarrelling with the brothers, and all drinking heavily. The two arrived +at Throng's late the next afternoon. There had been a slight thaw during +the day, and the air was almost soft, water dripping from the eaves down +the long icicles. + +When Lydia entered, the old man was dozing in his chair. The sound of an +axe out behind the house told where Duc was. The whisky-and-herbs was +beside the sick man's chair, and his feet were wrapped about with +bearskins. The girl made a little gesture of pain, and then stepped +softly over and, kneeling, looked into Throng's face. The lips were +moving. + +"Dad," she said, "are you asleep?" + +"I be a durn fool, I be," he said in a whisper, and then he began to +cough. She took his' hands. They were cold, and she rubbed them softly. +"I feel so a'mighty holler," he said, gasping, "an' that bread's sour +agin." He shook his head pitifully. + +His eyes at last settled on her, and he recognised her. He broke into a +giggling laugh; the surprise was almost too much for his feeble mind and +body. His hands reached and clutched hers. "Liddy! Liddy!" he +whispered, then added peevishly, "the bread's sour, an' the boneset and +camomile's no good. . . . Ain't tomorrow bakin'-day?" he added. + +"Yes, dad," she said, smoothing his hands. + +"What damned--liars--they be--Liddy! You're my gel, ain't ye?" + +"Yes, dad. I'll make some boneset liquor now." + +"Yes, yes," he said, with childish eagerness and a weak, wild smile. + +"That's it--that's it." + +She was about to rise, but he caught her shoulder. "I bin a good dad to +ye, hain't I, Liddy?" he whispered. + +"Always." + +"Never had no ma but Manette, did ye?" + +"Never, dad." + +"What danged liars they be!" he said, chuckling. She kissed him, and +moved away to the fire to pour hot water and whisky on the herbs. + +His eyes followed her proudly, shining like wet glass in the sun. He +laughed--such a wheezing, soundless laugh! + +"He! he! he! I ain't no--durn--fool--bless--the Lord!" he said. + +Then the shining look in his eyes became a grey film, and the girl turned +round suddenly, for the long, wheezy breathing had stopped. She ran to +him, and, lifting up his head, saw the look that makes even the fool seem +wise in his cold stillness. Then she sat down on the floor, laid her +head against the arm of his chair, and wept. + +It was very quiet inside. From without there came the twang of an axe, +and a man's voice talking to his horse. When the man came in, he lifted +the girl up, and, to comfort her, bade her go look at a picture hanging +in her little room. After she was gone he lifted the body, put it on a +couch, and cared for it. + + + + + + +THE PLUNDERER + +It was no use: men might come and go before her, but Kitty Cline had +eyes for only one man. Pierre made no show of liking her, and thought, +at first, that hers was a passing fancy. He soon saw differently. There +was that look in her eyes which burns conviction as deep as the furnace +from which it comes: the hot, shy, hungering look of desire; most +childlike, painfully infinite. He would rather have faced the cold mouth +of a pistol; for he felt how it would end. He might be beyond wish to +play the lover, but he knew that every man can endure being loved. He +also knew that some are possessed--a dream, a spell, what you will--for +their life long. Kitty Cline was one of these. + +He thought he must go away, but he did not. From the hour he decided to +stay misfortune began. Willie Haslam, the clerk at the Company's Post, +had learned a trick or two at cards in the east, and imagined that he +could, as he said himself, "roast the cock o' the roost"--meaning Pierre. +He did so for one or two evenings, and then Pierre had a sudden increase +of luck (or design), and the lad, seeing no chance of redeeming the +I O U, representing two years' salary, went down to the house where Kitty +Cline lived, and shot himself on the door-step. + +He had had the misfortune to prefer Kitty to the other girls at Guidon +Hill--though Nellie Sanger would have been as much to him, if Kitty had +been easier to win. The two things together told hard against Pierre. +Before, he might have gone; in the face of difficulty he certainly would +not go. Willie Haslam's funeral was a public function: he was young, +innocent-looking, handsome, and the people did not know what Pierre would +not tell now--that he had cheated grossly at cards. Pierre was sure, +before Liddall, the surveyor, told him, that a movement was apace to +give him trouble--possibly fatal. + +"You had better go," said Liddall. "There's no use tempting Providence." + +"They are tempting the devil," was the cool reply; "and that is not all +joy, as you shall see." + +He stayed. For a time there was no demonstration on either side. +He came and went through the streets, and was found at his usual haunts, +to observers as cool and nonchalant as ever. He was a changed man, +however. He never got away from the look in Kitty Cline's eyes. He felt +the thing wearing on him, and he hesitated to speculate on the result; +but he knew vaguely that it would end in disaster. There is a kind of +corrosion which eats the granite out of the blood, and leaves fever. + +"What is the worst thing that can happen a man, eh?" he said to Liddall +one day, after having spent a few minutes with Kitty Cline. + +Liddall was an honest man. He knew the world tolerably well. In writing +once to his partner in Montreal he had spoken of Pierre as "an admirable, +interesting scoundrel." Once when Pierre called him "mon ami," and asked +him to come and spend an evening in his cottage, he said: + +"Yes, I will go. But--pardon me--not as your friend. Let us be plain +with each other. I never met a man of your stamp before--" + +"A professional gambler--yes? Bien?" + +"You interest me; I like you; you have great cleverness--" + +"A priest once told me I had a great brain-there is a difference. Well?" + +"You are like no man I ever met before. Yours is a life like none +I ever knew. I would rather talk with you than with any other man in the +country, and yet--" + +"And yet you would not take me to your home? That is all right. I +expect nothing. I accept the terms. I know what I am and what you are. +I like men who are square. You would go out of your way to do me a good +turn." + +It was on his tongue to speak of Katy Cline, but he hesitated: it was not +fair to the girl, he thought, though what he had intended was for her +good. He felt he had no right to assume that Liddall knew how things +were. The occasion slipped by. + +But the same matter had been in his mind when, later, he asked, "What is +the worst thing that can happen to a man?" + +Liddall looked at him long, and then said: "To stand between two fires." + +Pierre smiled: it was an answer after his own heart. Liddall remembered +it very well in the future. + +"What is the thing to do in such a case?" Pierre asked. + +"It is not good to stand still." + +"But what if you are stunned, or do not care?" + +"You should care. It is not wise to strain a situation." + +Pierre rose, walked up and down the room once or twice, then stood still, +his arms folded, and spoke in a low tone. "Once in the Rockies I was +lost. I crept into a cave at night. I knew it was the nest of some wild +animal; but I was nearly dead with hunger and fatigue. I fell asleep. +When I woke--it was towards morning--I saw two yellow stars glaring where +the mouth of the cave had been. They were all hate: like nothing you +could imagine: passion as it is first made--yes. There was also a +rumbling sound. It was terrible, and yet I was not scared. Hate need +not disturb you.--I am a quick shot. I killed that mountain lion, and I +ate the haunch of deer I dragged from under her . . . " + +He turned now, and, facing the doorway, looked out upon the village, to +the roof of a house which they both knew. "Hate," he said, "is not the +most wonderful thing. I saw a woman look once as though she could lose +the whole world--and her own soul. She was a good woman. The man was +bad--most: he never could be anything else. A look like that breaks the +nerve. It is not amusing. In time the man goes to pieces. But before +that comes he is apt to do strange things. Eh-so!" + +He sat down, and, with his finger, wrote musingly in the dust upon the +table. + +Liddall looked keenly at him, and replied more brusquely than he felt: +"Do you think it fair to stay--fair to her?" + +"What if I should take her with me?" Pierre flashed a keen, searching +look after the words. + +"It would be useless devilry." + +"Let us drink," said Pierre, as he came to his feet quickly: "then for +the House of Lords" (the new and fashionable tavern). + +They separated in the street, and Pierre went to the House of Lords +alone. He found a number of men gathered before a paper pasted on a +pillar of the veranda. Hearing his own name, he came nearer. A ranch +man was reading aloud an article from a newspaper printed two hundred +miles away. The article was headed, "A Villainous Plunderer." It had +been written by someone at Guidon Hill. All that was discreditable in +Pierre's life it set forth with rude clearness; he was credited with +nothing pardonable. In the crowd there were mutterings unmistakable to +Pierre. He suddenly came among them, caught a revolver from his pocket, +and shot over the reader's shoulder six times into the pasted strip of +newspaper. + +The men dropped back. They were not prepared for warlike measures at +the moment. Pierre leaned his back against the pillar and waited. His +silence and coolness, together with an iron fierceness in his face, held +them from instant demonstration against him; but he knew that he must +face active peril soon. He pocketed his revolver and went up the hill to +the house of Kitty Cline's mother. It was the first time he had ever +been there. At the door he hesitated, but knocked presently, and was +admitted by Kitty, who, at sight of him, turned faint with sudden joy, +and grasped the lintel to steady herself. + +Pierre quietly caught her about the waist, and shut the door. She +recovered, and gently disengaged herself. He made no further advance, +and they stood looking at each other for a minute: he, as one who had +come to look at something good he was never to see again; she, as at +something she hoped to see for ever. They had never before been where +no eyes could observe them. He ruled his voice to calmness. + +"I am going away," he said, "and I have come to say good-bye." + +Her eyes never wavered from his. Her voice was scarce above a whisper. + +"Why do you go? Where are you going?" + +"I have been here too long. I am what they call a villain and a +plunderer. I am going to-mon Dieu, I do not know!" He shrugged his +shoulders, and smiled with a sort of helpless disdain. + +She leaned her hands on the table before her. Her voice was still that +low, clear murmur. + +"What people say doesn't matter." She staked her all upon her words. +She must speak them, though she might hate herself afterwards. "Are you +going--alone?" + +"Where I may have to go I must travel alone." + +He could not meet her eyes now; he turned his head away. He almost hoped +she would not understand. "Sit down," he added; "I want to tell you of +my life." + +He believed that telling it as he should, she would be horror-stricken, +and that the deep flame would die out of her eyes. Neither he nor she +knew how long they sat there, he telling with grim precision of the life +he had led. Her hands were clasped before her, and she shuddered once or +twice, so that he paused; but she asked him firmly to go on. + +When all was told he stood up. He could not see her face, but he heard +her say: + +"You have forgotten many things that were not bad. Let me say them." +She named things that would have done honour to a better man. He was +standing in the moonlight that came through the window. She stepped +forward, her hands quivering out to him. "Oh, Pierre," she said, "I know +why you tell me this: but it makes no difference-none! I will go with +you wherever you go." + +He caught her hands in his. She was stronger than he was now. Her eyes +mastered him. A low cry broke from him, and he drew her almost fiercely +into his arms. + +"Pierre! Pierre!" was all she could say. + +He kissed her again and again upon the mouth. As he did so, he heard +footsteps and muffled voices without. Putting her quickly from him, he +sprang towards the door, threw it open, closed it behind him, and drew +his revolvers. A half-dozen men faced him. Two bullets whistled by his +head, and lodged in the door. Then he fired swiftly, shot after shot, +and three men fell. His revolvers were empty. There were three men +left. The case seemed all against him now, but just here a shot, and +then another, came from the window, and a fourth man fell. Pierre sprang +upon one, the other turned and ran. There was a short sharp struggle: +then Pierre rose up--alone. + +The girl stood in the doorway. "Come, my dear," he said, you must go +with me now." + +"Yes, Pierre," she cried, a mad light in her face, "I have killed men +too--for you." + +Together they ran down the hillside, and made for the stables of the +Fort. People were hurrying through the long street of the town, and +torches were burning, but they came by a roundabout to the stables +safely. Pierre was about to enter, when a man came out. It was Liddall. +He kept his horses there, and he had saddled one, thinking that Pierre +might need it. + +There were quick words of explanation, and then, "Must the girl go too?" +he asked. "It will increase the danger--besides--" + +"I am going wherever he goes," she interrupted hoarsely. "I have killed +men; he and I are the same now." + +Without a word Liddall turned back, threw a saddle on another horse, and +led it out quickly. "Which way?" he asked; "and where shall I find the +horses?" + +"West to the mountains. The horses you will find at Tete Blanche Hill, +if we get there. If not, there is money under the white pine at my +cottage. Goodbye!" + +They galloped away. But there were mounted men in the main street, and +one, well ahead of the others, was making towards the bridge over which +they must pass. He reached it before they did, and set his horse +crosswise in its narrow entrance. Pierre urged his mare in front of the +girl's, and drove straight at the head and shoulders of the obstructing +horse. His was the heavier animal, and it bore the other down. The +rider fired as he fell, but missed, and, in an instant, Pierre and the +girl were over. The fallen man fired the second time, but again missed. +They had a fair start, but the open prairie was ahead of them, and there +was no chance to hide. Riding must do all, for their pursuers were in +full cry. For an hour they rode hard. They could see their hunters not +very far in the rear. Suddenly Pierre started and sniffed the air. + +"The prairie's on fire," he said exultingly, defiantly. Almost as he +spoke, clouds ran down the horizon, and then the sky lighted up. The +fire travelled with incredible swiftness: they were hastening to meet it. +It came on wave-like, hurrying down at the right and the left as if to +close in on them. The girl spoke no word; she had no fear: what Pierre +did she would do. He turned round to see his pursuers: they had wheeled +and were galloping back the way they came. His horse and hers were +travelling neck and neck. He looked at her with an intense, eager gaze. + +"Will you ride on?" he asked eagerly. "We are between two fires." He +smiled, remembering his words to Liddall. + +"Ride on," she urged in a strong, clear voice, a kind of wild triumph in +it. "You shall not go alone." + +There ran into his eyes now the same infinite look that had been in hers +--that had conquered him. The flame rolling towards them was not +brighter or hotter. + +"For heaven or hell, my girl!" he cried, and they drove their horses on +--on. + +Far behind upon a Divide the flying hunters from Guidon Hill paused for a +moment. They saw with hushed wonder and awe a man and woman, dark and +weird against the red light, ride madly into the flickering surf of fire. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +All humour in him had a strain of the sardonic +In her heart she never can defy the world as does a man +Some wise men are fools, one way or another + + + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE "ROMANY OF THE SNOWS": + +A human life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of time +Advantage to live where nothing was required of her but truth +All humour in him had a strain of the sardonic +Bad turns good sometimes, when you know the how +Don't be too honest +Every shot that kills ricochets +Fear of one's own wife is the worst fear in the world +Have you ever felt the hand of your own child in yours +He never saw an insult unless he intended to avenge it +How can you judge the facts if you don't know the feeling? +In her heart she never can defy the world as does a man +Liars all men may be, but that's wid wimmin or landlords +Memory is man's greatest friend and worst enemy +Men are like dogs--they worship him who beats them +Not good to have one thing in the head all the time +Put the matter on your own hearthstone +Remember the sorrow of thine own wife +Secret of life: to keep your own commandments +She valued what others found useless +She had not suffered that sickness, social artifice +Solitude fixes our hearts immovably on things +Some people are rough with the poor--and proud +Some wise men are fools, one way or another +They whose tragedy lies in the capacity to suffer greatly +Think with the minds of twelve men, and the heart of one woman +When a man laugh in the sun and think nothing of evil +Women are half saints, half fools +Youth hungers for the vanities + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMANY OF THE SNOWS, ALL, BY PARKER *** + +*********** This file should be named gp13w10.txt or gp13w10.zip ************ + +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, gp13w11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gp13w10a.txt + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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