Part 17

There he was stopped. A yelling went up on every side, and the men ran together, apparently in confusion, but all with an object--to prepare themselves for a journey. A thousand men made for the silent canyon, a thousand men poured through what once had been Mosquito Hole, and that thousand men swept over the snow and the hidden treasures of Bonanza. So the hunt began. The pursuers were men, and their quarry men. They were more terrible than dogs, these hunters, because men can call off the dogs of chase. But who can call off men?

“Say!” A hand pulled my arm, and a frightened voice exclaimed: “The Commissioner’s away!”

It was Dave, late of the _Carillon_.

“Don’t ye see?” he went on fearfully. “The boys are so mad there’ll be no holdin’ of ’em. The Commissioner’s gone around the country, an’ won’t be back before the week-end. The boys’ll jest take the law inter their own hands.”

“What will they do if they catch the thieves?” I could hardly speak with fear, because I was sure I could name one of the marauders.

“They’ll flog ’em sure. They’ll hang ’em. They’re so ter’ble mad, p’r’aps they’ll put ’em on the wood-pile.”

I shuddered dreadfully. The frost choked my breath when I tried to protest against the horror of burning fellow-men.

“The police will stop it,” I managed to say.

“The police’ll make the boys give ’em over to the law, if so be they’re strong enough. But there’s only fifty of ’em in Hanafin, now the Commissioner’s gone wi’ his crowd.”

A quiet settled over the city, perhaps because it felt a tragedy impending, perhaps because the noisiest fifth part of its inhabitants were hunting in the night over Bonanza. I did not sleep during the hours which are considered night in the other world. Sometimes I looked out fearfully along silent Front Street, which spread away under the pale green glow, the lights from the saloons flashing on the near side, and upon the far side, from the Variety Theatre, came fitfully a burst of harsh music or a yell of drunken applause. One or two huge huskies moved slowly about the snow like hungry bears.

The hours of business returned, but the hunters were not among us. The glimmer of hopeless daylight reached us, and the miners went out into Bonanza to watch and wait for the hounds, but there was no burning done. There were no signs of the thousand who had gone forth to hunt, beyond their innumerable tracks in the snow.

“They’ll be ter’ble cold an’ hungry,” said some.

Then an old man, who knew all the moods of the arctic winter, put up his hand at noon, and pointed north.

“There’s wind a-comin’ there,” he said. “If they ain’t back afore night, we won’t see half of ’em no more.”

I saw the scar of misty cloud he indicated rising out of the northern snows, a long thin patch, the colour of indigo, and as it ascended all our dim, sad light went out.

Only a few citizens knew that a posse of police had set forth during the night, so soon as the hunters had gone out, and no one could know which direction they had taken, because it is the habit of these men to ride back upon their tracks, and jump their horses to some patch of ground which the wind has swept clean of snow, and so ride away and baffle pursuit. The few who knew guessed that they had gone to bring the Commissioner. They would have to ride against time, and the act of God.

The _Hanafin Herald_, our daily paper, did not appear, not for the lack of news that day, but because the men who prepared it were out upon the chase.

By two o’clock daylight was done; at three, no news; about four, the aurora came up like dark-blue smoke, and the atmosphere was entirely without motion; five, the silence was still unbroken, the air so still that it would never have supported a feather; at ten minutes past, the snow-dust along Front Street began to whirl in small eddies. It was a fantastic sight, and the man who was weather-wise chewed his cigar-end fiercely.

“It’s a-goin’ to be an old-time night,” he said simply.

Six o’clock, and the murmur of many voices filled the city. The hunters were returning from Bonanza. The atmosphere was filled with a stream of liquid ice, and the noise of feet tramping upon snow. The dark-blue aurora was growing purple, and a dreadful darkness settled down, like something tangible and creeping.

Out of the closeness of that gloom the procession entered Hanafin City. First came a sweeping van of misty ghosts, whirling along side by side, formed by columns of ice-cold snow-dust, whipped up into the atmosphere by some northern current sent as a forerunner of the great wind; then those who had gone forth to watch and wait; after these, the hunters and the hunted.

WHEN SENTENCE IS GIVEN, LET HIM BE CONDEMNED

Some of the hunters carried packs, silent witnesses brought to appear against the hunted; and at the end of the procession eight men staggered, four of them leaning to one side, and four to the other. Before these had advanced into the open, a cyclonic spout of wind swept over the northern cliffs, rushed down, and broke upon us. The torrent swept and roared through Hanafin, so that none of us could determine the nature of the burden that the eight men carried.

Then the night became terrible. One man might stand holding another, yet neither would be able to see the other; the snow-dust choked the wind and lashed upon our faces with cold ice-pricks; above us, around, and below the grey sea of wind and snow roared, and rushed, and smote.

A great crowd had massed in Front Street, surging to and fro, jostling and pushing, but each separate individual in that crowd could feel himself alone in that arctic tempest. The voices were heard no longer, because in her insanity Nature can roar louder than a million madmen. Now and again a light goggled out of the grey whirl, to disappear in an instant.

That crowd drifted towards the doors of the big saloon, and I was carried with them, my face smarting under the lash of ice. Already the great hall appeared choked, and yet I believe hundreds were packed in after I tumbled inside. The space used for dancing was a sea of humanity, and, like the sea, it roared and heaved; the gambling-tables had been folded up and set aside; the bar was thronged. Still the men came, with here and there a woman who had long ago abandoned self-respect, and the passion of the assembly became greater. Everyone was wildly shouting, and I could gather nothing from the tumult.

A great voice sounded over us, and this voice rolled from end to end in the order, “Quit yer noise!”

A silence fell into the crowd, but outside the arctic storm went yelling on its way.

A chair had been placed upon the bar counter, and on this chair Moccasin Bill seated his spare figure. To his right stood MacInnes, the mayor; to his left the man who had become a stranger to me, my former partner MacCaskill. These three looked down upon us.

“Shet the doors,” commanded Moccasin Bill, “an’ keep ’em shet. The rest uv the citizens must get away home, ’cause there ain’t room for ’em en here. Make a space right there.”

He pointed down, and the sea of men heaved back, until I found it hard to draw breath.

Grizzled Bill rose solemnly.

“Citizens,” he proclaimed, pulling off his fur cap and holding it out, “ye know as well as me that we’re on British territory, where the law ain’t jest what it is en minin’ towns over the line. Ther’ the miners make their own law, an’ pays out their own justice. Right here the law is the law uv the country, an’ ’tis administered by the judge uv the Court. I ain’t for sayin’ anything ’gainst that. We ain’t all British be any manner uv means, but while we’re en Hanafin City we’re subjects o’ Queen Victoria. Citizens, I say this is a case where we’re entitled to take the law inter our own hands.”

The voices answered him with a great shout of approval.

“I’ve ben appointed judge,” went on the old man solemnly. “An’ me bowers are the mayor uv this city an’ Factor MacCaskill, the first miner inter Bonanza. I’ve ben judge afore this, boys, an’ I’ve jedged fair, I’ve ben told, and, ’fore God, I’ll judge fair again.”

The old man bent forward, and peered over the upturned faces rising and falling beneath.

“Bring up that prisoner!” he called, and the crowd swayed to and fro, and my heart began to thud.

I heard the voice of the judge asking, “Where’s the other pris’ner?”

Every word of the answer reached my ears.

“Out in the snow, judge. He’ll thaw inside.”

“What’s that?” I asked the man who was jammed upon me.

“Guess t’other pris’ner’s ben froze,” he gasped back.

“Burn him! Burn him!” was the cry going up around the building. If the man had been frost-bitten, let him be thawed with fire. “Burn him!”

“Order!” shouted the mayor.

The prisoner stood before his judge. I craned my neck, but I could not see. I was fastened into the crowd like a cork in a bottle.

“Who is he?” I called, because Redpath was tall, and this man surely was short, or I should have seen him.

“’Tis a little man,” spoke a very tall miner generally, “wi’ a face like lumps o’ wet dough.”

Olaffson, the Icelander, for the last time.

“He’s sweatin’ an’ skulkin’ something horrid,” said the tall miner.

“Pris’ner!” spoke the grizzled judge, and the entire assembly tried to push forward. “Ther’ has ben a lot uv sneak-thievin’ about this city an’ around Bonanza. You was took right among a lot uv stolen property. There’s jest one case we want to try special, an’ that’s the robbin’ uv the cache what belongs to ole men, Rod, Abe, an’ Pal, who’ve gone out for the winter. We didn’t find none o’ that stuff in your dug-out, nor yet in yer pard’s. We surmise you’ve hid it away some place. If you speak up, an’ show grit, we’ll take that into consideration when we come to pass sentence. Are ye guilty, or are ye not guilty?”

The pause which followed was not silence, because the wind screamed and the snow hissed where it struck. Surely the prisoner upon the other side of the door would be frozen to death, and his guards with him.

A voice proclaimed, “Says he’s not guilty.”

The crowd broke into furious shouts, “Flog him! Flog him!”

“Quit yer noise!” the judge ordered angrily. “This is a court uv justice.”

He spoke to MacInnes, and the latter held up a big coon coat.

“’Twas found in the pris’ner’s dug-out,” explained the mayor. “Does any citizen claim it?”

“That’s mine,” shouted the coarse voice of old miner Septimus M‘Quatrain. “The durned thief! Likewise an otter cap.”

“Here ’tis,” said MacInnes. He then put up twenty pounds of very fat bacon.

Bill Petro shouted:

“Lemme smell a hunk, an’ I’ll tell. I spilt me oil-can over me bacon.”

The mayor sniffed gravely.

“Ay, it smells of coal oil all right, Bill,” he said.

Not a laugh went up from the crowd. Only the same angry mutterings and the deep growls, “Flog him!”

“You’ve pleaded not guilty, pris’ner,” said the judge. “Them things were found en yer dug-out. What have ye got to say en yer defence?”

The men near the inaudible wretch repeated his frightened answer, and it was passed on through the crowd.

“Says he never took ’em. Says he knows who did. Says his pard done it all.”

“Pris’ner,” exclaimed the judge with sudden heat, “ye are the meanest skunk what ever trod!”

The citizens broke loose again.

“Wood-pile, jedge! Say wood-pile!” and under it all the monotonous antiphon, “Flog him!”

Above the tumult of those demands, and the insanity of the elements, a bull-like bellow roared, and an arm, like a black tree, shot up--the black arm which I had once broken at Gull.

“Jake Peterssen for the floggin’!” yelled the half-mad crowd, and refused to be quieted.

The judge was talking with MacCaskill, and so soon as he could make his voice heard, called to know if I were present. Directly I had answered, the negro shouted:

“He’s a better man than me, jedge. He beat me. He’s the boy ye want. Rupe Petrie fo’ the floggin’!”

The miners took up the cry and yelled it, until I could already hear Olaffson’s vile screams for mercy, and the horrid shock of a heavy whip. When he was allowed to speak, the judge recounted the charges brought by the factor against the prisoner--the burning of my home, the treachery at Gull upon the lake, and at Hanafin; and I had to answer that the story was all true.

“Bring in his pard,” the voices were demanding.

The judge spoke grimly to the Icelander.

“Ye are a mean, skulkin’ louse, pris’ner, an’ we don’t have to show ye no pity, though I allow we ain’t got nothing ’cept what they call circumstantial evidence ’gainst ye. Jest ye tell me if ther’ is any sort uv reason why we should show mercy to ye.”

“He’s sweatin’ awful,” said the tall miner.

Olaffson had only his former story. His partner had been the thief.

The voices went up strongly:

“Fetch in his pard.”

Moccasin Bill almost smiled.

“Fetch in his pard,” he repeated terribly.

The doors were open, and in fought the rush of snow and wind, and the lamp flames leapt wildly. There was a sound of struggling, of lifting, and of carrying. The doors were shut again, and I knew that Redpath was amongst us, the cynical, opinionative English gentleman, the man who had made such a miserable failure of that space between coming and going called life. Redpath for the last time.

He had come to my home at Yellow Sands, like a thief in the night; he had come to mock at my misery in the old stone ruin of the bush, where he hoped to steal away my life; he had come half a skeleton to be fed, and, after taking my hospitality, had robbed me and gone. As he entered then, what was the influence of that superior smile, what the use of that gentlemanly manner, and what the power of that contemptuous glance?

He had always been fond of life.

Four men carried a long shape, swathed in a snow-covered blanket. They proceeded to unwrap this shape. It was like unrolling a sheet of lead, because the cruel frost had made the thick duffle rigid and unyielding. The blanket came away gradually, and revealed the man, frozen body and blood and bones. The flesh frozen into ridges, was as solid to the touch as stone, and colder far. They had brought me forward to identify the frozen man.

“His name was Redpath,” I said. “He was my father’s enemy, and I know he was a thief.”

“The corpse is guilty,” said the judge, and a whisper of assent hurried round the building.

I could still find that old superior smile upon Redpath’s face. It could not disappear, because it was frozen there, and it seemed to me to be intended for myself, and for those around, the men who had hunted him down who now judged and had found him guilty, but who could not condemn. Through his half-open lips I saw his white even teeth. They were the only pleasant feature he possessed, and they were false.

The blanket frozen round the frozen man was claimed by one miner; the clothes he had been frozen in by another; my bundle of money was discovered in one of the pockets, and returned to me; everything upon him, from the clothes to a lump of tobacco, had been stolen. The only thing he had failed to steal was a longer span of the life he loved.

I stood between Olaffson and the dead; the one silent for ever, the other wringing and cringing in an agony. Still I felt that inexplicable pity for the Englishman. He had once been friendly with my father; he had taken the hand of my mother, whom I had never seen; he had held me as a baby upon his knee. A revulsion of feeling crossed me when I looked upon Olaffson, and for him I had no pity at all. I heard the vengeful voices demanding, “Sentence the pris’ner, jedge.” Once MacCaskill’s glance met mine, and he turned aside with an awkward movement. Moccasin Bill stood up.

“Ye are guilty, pris’ner,” he said slowly. “I’ve ben around the world en me time, an’ followed the yeller every place, an’ I’ve seen crooks an’ blacklegs shot an’ hung--ay, an’ burned--an’ I’ve stood by an’ said as how they deserved it. But I’ve never known a worse case than this.” The assenting voices shouted again. “No, boys,” he said, appealing to his audience, “I’ve never known a worse case than this. Ye have ben tried fair, pris’ner. We’re on Canadian soil, an’ a Canuk has tried ye. For I’m Canadian, boys; I’m Canadian to the cuticle. Ye are guilty of sneak-thievin’, pris’ner. Ye are jest a louse what wants poundin’, an’ we’re a-goin’ to pound ye. The boys want to have ye flogged.”

The voice of the grizzled judge became drowned, and above all the yells sounded the mighty bull bellow of Jake Peterssen, calling my name, and invoking my right arm for the punishment of the thief.

“I sentence ye to be flogged,” said the judge. “Fifty lashes--”

Then it seemed to me as though the wind had swept into the building, and had caught up the assembly, and brought them down upon me like an overwhelming wave. I heard the screams of Olaffson. They had seized him, and were dragging him this way and that. My name was upon everyone’s lips. “Rupe Petrie!” The place howled with it. The wind caught it up, and whirled it away over all Bonanza. And still the men were shouting, “Rupe Petrie!”

I understood at length that a tribute had been paid to my strength, that, partly because the condemned had wronged me, I had been appointed by the judge public executioner to the city.

I could not--I shouted that I could not--do what was required of me, but I might as successfully have appealed to the wild wind outside as to the wilder men about me. The whip was being made; Olaffson, beside himself with terror, was being stripped; and the scene made me sick when the entire meaning of my hideous duty confronted me. And all the time the men shouted with mad tongues, and around were all the demon faces and the demon eyes. Jake Peterssen snatched my weak hand and wrung it in congratulation, confident that he had shown himself my friend.

Another shout went up. The doors were being bombarded with fists and kicks.

“The boys are spoilin’ to get inside.”

“Open up!” called some of the men.

“There’s no room for ’em!” shouted Moccasin Bill.

The arctic temperature streamed inside; the tempest paused in its yelling, to draw its icy breath for a fresh outburst. A strong voice, muffled and angry, demanded admission in the name of the Queen-Empress.

“Open,” said the judge.

Again the stream of wind and ice, and the delirious leaping of the lights. Figures like white bears pushed inward, their moustaches frozen up in fine snow, a snow-covered figure at their head, grasping a sword covered with crystals in his fur mitt--the Commissioner himself; and behind him his police.

“Draw on them!” the representative shouted, and the white company brought up their revolvers and covered every part of the building. Two men at least felt the joy of reprieve--the executioner and the condemned.

“Hand over that man!” called the Commissioner.

The crowd growled like lions disappointed of their prey. This Commissioner was a different man from Hanafin. He was bold and hard, but had no tact, and when he gave an order he would have it instantly obeyed, though he might accompany it with a curse or an insult.

“Hand him over, or I’ll cancel the certificates of the lot of you.”

“We tried him fair, Commissioner,” entreated Moccasin Bill. “He ain’t done so much agin her gracious Majesty as agin us boys. He an’ his pard, who’s froze solid ther’, have ben bad sneak-thieves, an’ we’ve ben an’ took this case right inter our own hands for this once. You’d only put him inter prison, but we’re a-goin’ to hang him.”

The City of Hanafin endorsed every word spoken by their own appointed judge.

The Commissioner simply gave the word of command to his men. Four tall figures shoved forward, the fine snow falling off their furs.

“Shoot anyone who interferes!” shouted the angry Commissioner.

MacInnes, the mayor, spoke aside to Moccasin Bill.

“Boys!” called the latter, “the law has got to be obeyed. Let the police have the pris’ner.”

The miners could scarcely obey the order of their own judge, but the police made the arrest of Olaffson, and marched him out. The Commissioner wheeled round sharply, with a satisfied smile, and followed. But while the clouds of snow hissed inwards, the mayor, standing stiff upon the bar counter, yelled with all his might:

“Boys! To hell with the sneak-thief!”

The men went mad again. Taking up the cry, they rushed into the whirling night, into the freezing, tearing wind and the grey torrent of snow, and flung themselves upon the police. Revolvers flashed uselessly, and swords darted aimlessly, stabbing merely the great grey shapes that fled down the wind ghost-like. The miners of Hanafin were drunk with fury, and they were in thousands against a handful. Soldier after soldier was seized and dragged to the light of the saloon, that each might be identified. The time came when they found the one shrieking wretch they wanted....

I fled, battling against the stream of ice, away from the life I had come from home to see.

Standing beside the stove in my shanty I found poor Akshelah, shivering with terror. The relief of finding myself alone with her, the delight of being able to console and assure her! She had told me that I was all she had. What had I upon earth beside her?

“We have no enemies to follow us now, little squirrel,” I said, stroking her thick warm hair. “Redpath is frozen into stone, and Olaffson,” I shivered, because the shrieks of the wind were pitilessly human.

“The white face!” she said fearfully, coming up to me.

“They are killing him now.”

She shivered, and clung to me more closely. She spoke presently.

“I told you the factor loved the yellow stones.” She was playing nervously with my cold fingers. “He has left you, and--you have no one now.”

I lifted her face and kissed her soft mouth with a new feeling which made me forget everything save the present.

“I have all that I want. And when the storm has done, we will go together to Father Casey, and tell him”--the wind became terrible, and I had to wait for it to pass--“that we want to be together all our lives.”

VII

BONANZA

WHERE THE SUN SHINES UPON THE SAND