Part 4

On the following morning (Sunday), MacCaskill took me into the Star saloon, the foregathering place-in-chief of the lumbermen, in order to introduce me to some human character. The bar was filled with men who had religious scruples against working on Sunday, all in peaceful mood, reading the newspapers that had come with the _Carillon_, or commenting upon the doings of many a country and many a personage whose names I now heard for the first time. It was not etiquette to gamble before noon. A regular gale was blowing at the time, and heavy rain lashed the tin roofing.

Overhead, a lighted lamp swayed, its yellow glass fogged in smoke, which wreathed everything; the odour of this smoke, combined with that of the liquors, and the chewing of black tobacco, was sufficient to almost intoxicate a saloon tyro; but, fortunately, my manner of life had been so healthy that I experienced no inconvenience beyond a certain unpleasantness in getting my breath. The factor paid our footing, and we were established and introduced as good citizens of the town of Gull by the simple process of drinking with the crowd.

Presently my companion nudged me.

“Do ye mind yon feller?” he said, nodding towards the end of the bar, where two men, one tall and elderly, the other fat and middle-aged, stood smoking very black cigars. “The feller wi’ black and white hair? That’s Bob Lennie, captain of the _Carillon_. Come across.”

We joined the two men, and the factor introduced me.

“What’ll ye have?” said the captain at once.

A bottle was pushed across the sloppy bar, and we helped ourselves, although I did little more than flavour the water with the hot corn whisky, which I thought the most nauseous compound I had ever tasted. By this time I began to understand why men would run mad at the suggestion of gold; but that they should care to wreck their bodies for the sake of such horrible stuff as that biting liquor, as the factor assured me they did, was to me incredible.

“This is my mate,” Lennie was saying. “Sandy, boy, here’s Andy MacCaskill and Rupe Petrie from Yellow Sands. You’re comin’ across, eh? Well, we’re going north quite a piece, an’ comin’ back wi’ a cargo of fish. We’ll be gettin’ away for the Little Peace in maybe five days’ time, if this dirty weather don’t hold.”

I had seen few men, but I could not have imagined any stranger-looking than Bob Lennie. His cadaverous face was cross-hatched with innumerable lines, his eyes were dark and wild, his hair partly coal-black, and partly silver-grey. He stooped a good deal, but he was well over sixty. He was the father of north-west navigators, and nearly every part of the treacherous inland sea of Lake Peace, its hidden reefs and shoals and silt-bars, were to him an open book.

“Not many passengers these days, I guess?” hinted MacCaskill, when we had found a corner to ourselves.

Sandy, the mate, smuggled beside me, and launched himself into a discussion of something which he called the silver question in the United States; but I could do nothing except listen, throwing in a monosyllable of sheer ignorance occasionally. He was quite content to monopolise the conversation, while I listened to the captain and my partner. The former was saying, in answer to the latter’s question:

“A few new hands comin’ out to the fisheries, and a preacher once in a while. Say, we picked up Father Lacombe yesterday morning, and he’s paid on to the Little Peace.”

“Where did ye strike him, anyhow?” asked MacCaskill.

“We was passin’ White River, an’ he signalled. Said he’d packed down to the coast after a mission-airy journey upland, wi’ a couple of nitchies, who took themselves off in the night wi’ all his supplies. I said to him, ‘Don’t ye want to find them thieves, father?’ ‘Course not,’ he said. ‘It’s a punishment to me for havin’ taught ’em badly.’ Lord, Mac! don’t these preachers talk soft!”

The two men laughed together.

“He’s quite a priest down east, they tell me,” went on Lennie.

“Saw him come ashore,” said MacCaskill. “He don’t look strong on fasting Fridays.”

“They do say the less some men do eat the fatter they do get. It’s one of those things they call a parridox. But what’s the father wantin’ around Gull at all?”

“No, siree!” shouted the little mate at my ear. “What’s the silver standard? Explain to me the value of free silver. In what way, sir, is the silver dollar better than the paper? Tell me that.”

It was impossible for me to enlighten him, and I said so.

“I guess you’re right,” the captain said. “The father’s come to look around, wi’ the idea of startin’ a mission. There ain’t enough of his religion hereabouts to make it a going concern.”

“Lots of half-breeds,” suggested the factor.

“Well, but they ain’t got religion. Maybe the father’ll be preaching some place to-night. I ain’t religious meself, but I like an opera, and I wonderful well like to hear a sermon, if there’s lots o’ blood and fire about it.”

“Say, Mister Petrie, are ye a Republican or a Democrat?” demanded the rasping voice I had almost come to ignore.

I turned to the mate, and assured him that I was neither.

“You’re a neutral, eh? Well, I don’t hold wi’ neutrality, which jest means scrappin’ wi’ everyone. I like to scrap for me own party.”

“Do I mind Joey Fagge? Why, course I do. There ain’t any old-timer who can’t tell you something ’bout him. He was the cutest ole Sam-Peter west, and they tell how he could smell out gold, same as these miracle chaps down south fetch water outer the ground, or shoot it outer the sky, or some such durned trick. No one knows where he finished, though I’ve heard tell how he got caught in a storm on this very lake and was drownded.”

“Did he die rich?”

“Ever heard of a miner who did?” said the captain, laughing hoarsely. “Last time I saw Joey he was flyin’ off the handle in Main Street, Fort Garry. Seems some American chap had bested him upon a real-estate bargain, an’ the old man took that sort of thing bad. He was a good-natured ole chap too. I know that, ’cause I was in Garry time of the boom, and I know a yarn if you want to listen.”

The mate was besieging my ear, but my attention was not for him. I edged towards Bob Lennie, that I might hear all I could concerning the man my father had been accused of murdering.

“A young Englishman came inter Garry ’bout the middle of the fun,” went on the captain. “Ye see, he fancied he was goin’ to look out for a job, but when he saw the cash an’ champagne-water a-flowin’ around, an’ found lots o’ folks happy to stand him drinks and leave him the change if he wanted it, he started to quit his thoughts of work, an’ surmised he’d struck an almightily soft way of living. Time came, of course, when he found himself gettin’ left dry on the rocks, an’ as he hadn’t near enough at the week-end to fix up his hotel bill, he nat’rally walked into the bar at mornin’ wi’ the idea of runnin’ outer what he _had_ got. After takin’ a doctor’s prescription, he moved ’way up the street, spoilin’ for excitement, an’ presently he pulled up at Central Hall, where a big real-estate sale was going on. The boy’s brain must have ben a bit in wool, ’cause he started biddin’ for a parcel of land, and sudden-like the lot was knocked down to him. D’rectly he found the other fellers had quit, you can believe me he made back to the hotel, to find out a cool place to set down in; but call me what you like, Mac, if a chap didn’t come round, jest as fast as his legs would bring him, to offer to take the property off the boy’s hands at the price it had ben knocked down. And he hadn’t time to call this chap his brother before up came another, wi’ two or three more ’most tumblin’ after him, an’ every one cappin’ the offer of the man before him. A boom had struck that bit of property sudden, an’ it had ben knocked down before the bis’ness fellers could get around to Central Hall. Course the young chap was ready to scream, but he had the sense to pretend hatin’ to part wi’ the property, an’ he hung on until he got a wonderful big price, they say. Nobody worried over a few extra hundreds those days. Well, I saw him later on, an’ old man Fagge was drinking champagne-water wi’ him, an’ talkin’ to him like a father, an’ advisin’ him to stuff his valise, an’ make east outer the racket, before he flung away that pile he’d jest made by the biggest and almightiest hunk of luck outside creation.”

“Did he go?” I broke in.

“I guess so,” said Bob Lennie. “Anyhow, I never saw him around no more. Now, I call that real good of ole Joey to advise that young fool to get home, when he’d the brain to get all that pile inter his own pocket. Put that down on the credit side when anyone starts slingin’ things ’gainst old man’s character, I say.”

At the Tecumseh House, where Father Lacombe was also staying, we learnt at dinner that the priest was unwell.

“Got what he calls a chill,” announced the proprietor, adding, “He can keep it while he stops here. He won’t spend nothing for the good of the house.”

After the mid-day meal we went up to the room which we shared between us, closed the door, and sat on our respective shake-downs, there being no chairs, to discuss business. We had brought over from the Yellow Sands store the greater part of our supplies and tools, but there were still necessary articles to be added to our packs, and these were all obtainable at Gull. MacCaskill was paying my expenses as well as his own, and now that I began to understand the meaning of the thin slips of paper which he smoothed and fingered so deliberately, I felt uncomfortable at being dependent upon his savings, the more so when he said, “We’ll want to be careful, Rupe. The bank ain’t any too muscular.”

I suggested that we should camp out upon the mainland for the remainder of our time; but my partner demurred, because he thought it advisable to watch and wait in Gull.

“You’ve got brains, boy,” the factor went on.

“Where do you say Redpath is?”

I thought awhile before replying shortly, “Here.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’ all the time. Olaffson and he are hidin’ some place, and I guess they’re spyin’ upon us. How are they going to cross Lake Peace? They won’t have the gall to face us on the _Carillon_.”

I suggested that, as they had stolen a canoe from Yellow Sands, they might make away with one of the steam-tugs used at Gull to take out the lumber scows.

“Takin’ a tug outer Gull ain’t the same trick as stealin’ a canoe from a nitchi camp. There’s too many folks around, and they might be hanged for stealin’ hereabouts.”

“I should know that canoe again,” I said, and well I might, for I had paddled Akshelah in it many a time. “It’s not around here.”

“Pshaw! They’d have broke it up, and used it on the camp fire. Professional rascals don’t take risks. Look-a-here! We’ve got the nickels to stand this racket, but after we’ve bought our cornmeal, an’ bacon, an’ dried fruit, an’ a few little tools, an’ paid our passage across, we won’t have a lot to gamble with. The best we can do is to move along easy, watchin’ and not worryin’, and if Redpath’s on the ground when we strike it, there’ll be a fight if he’s awkward. If we can fix up things so as to work our claims apart, without scrappin’, that’s our line. If Redpath won’t have that, it’s throw up hands, and the best partners scoop the pool.”

Then the factor produced a pack of cards, and we played poker, and after that went to sleep upon our shake-downs.

It was almost dark when we awoke, and took to smoking to pass the time. Rain was still beating, but the wind had lessened, and a wet mist hung over the lake. It was cold, and I felt miserable; MacCaskill looked depressed, and we were both silent. Thus an hour of unutterable dreariness dragged away.

MacCaskill coughed suddenly, opened the box-stove, spat into it, and flung away the stub of his cigar.

“Swallowed a bit of leaf,” he growled. “Sets a man ’gainst smokin’ for a while.” He laughed grimly, and rubbed his hands. “Cheer up, Rupe; it’s Sunday, lad.”

“What about it?” I asked, for I had never been brought to look upon one day as different from another, apart from good or foul weather.

“Why, on Sunday evenings I gen’rally get as dolesome as a gibcat. Mem’ries, I guess, but you ain’t got enough past to make any of them. When I was away in the bush I kep’ track of the days easy. Whenever a fit of the megrims came on ’bout lights down, I’d know ’twas Sunday. It gen’rally worked out right. I come out clean and fresh Monday morning, but Sunday night I get hipped reg’lar. Say! What’ll you do, if old man’s notion pans out?”

“Follow your lead,” I said.

I expected the old fellow to laugh, but the dolesome fit was on him, and he became more surly than ever.

“I went home ’bout eight winters ago,” he said morosely.

I saw that he was in the mood to talk, so I settled myself to listen.

“I went home,” he repeated. “Away east to St. Catherine’s. That’s in Ontario, and ’twas a daisy of a place when I was your number. I went home. D’rectly ye shift outer any place ye get forgotten. See? Rainin’ yet, I guess?”

“Yes, it’s still raining,” I said.

“Well, it’ll do no harm, maybe. You see, when you come back to an old home ye expect to find a place kep’ for ye. Understand?” He gave me no time to reply. “Well now, I left St. Catherine’s when I was a younker, and got a post north in the Company. ’Twas a far better thing then than ’tis to-day, and I reckoned I’d stop a few years, make a leetle pile, come home when I was thirty, and marry Maimie Flett, who was waitin’ for me. Pretty little gal, Maimie. Had a way of lookin’ at me sideways. She was goin’ to wait for me. Wind’s comin’ up again, I guess?”

“Maybe,” I said, though I had not noticed any change.

“You see, those years got slippin’ away as though they’d ben oiled for it. I worked steady, an’ I saved a bit, but that pile seemed to be awful slow in mountin’ up. Life was in front of me, anyhow, and I said, ‘No matter, there’s a fine time a-comin’.’ I wasn’t going east, not till I was able to marry Maimie. The years got tumblin’ along one over the other so quick, Rupe, and Maimie she writ slower, and then she quit. Must have ben tiresome for the gal, and she hadn’t leisure like me, maybe.” The factor stopped, bent, and rubbed his leg.

“You went home?” I suggested.

He repeated the words after me slowly.

“Came upon me one day sudden,” he went on. “Me muscles had always ben good and worked easy, and I was comfortable in the wind, and right on me food and sleep. One evening, I mind it was wet and cold, I made to pick up a log to carry in to bucksaw. I just gave it a good heave on to me shoulder, and hot snakes jumped right through me, and run all along me back, and I let that log drop. I couldn’t have carried that log, Rupe, not if it had ben a bar of gold. You see, I was comin’ on fifty, an’ that pain was rheumatics. Old man had ’em bad, and you mind how Antoine used to rub him wi’ some of his medicine truck. That night I got smokin’, same as usual, in the Fort, and I stopped over it longer, ’cause I’d taken a new pipe from the store, and a new pipe smokes longer than the old ’un, and I got seein’ the smoke a-twistin’ around, and presently I seemed to see Maimie, and she was lookin’ at me sideways, and she was sayin’, ‘Why! ’tis never you, Andy! They’ll be callin’ you “old man” when you come down to St. Catherine’s.’ You see, Rupe, I’d got an old chap sudden, an’ I found it out sudden-like.”

I had nothing to say to this, because I was young and strong.

“You miss life by waitin’ for it, Rupe. You’ve got to take, an’ never wait. I took me leave anyhow, and went east to see the old place again. I was a sort of fool, ’cause I reckoned to find things same as I minded ’em, and Maimie a little bit of a gal, wi’ a way of lookin’ at me sideways. I came in on the Grand Trunk, and I got out at the depôt, and stood lonesome, and peeked around, jest as awkward as a fly in a glass of beer. You see, I’d known everyone in St. Catherine’s my time. I said to a feller, ‘What’s the name of this place, anyhow?’ and he said, ‘St. Catherine’s, stranger,’ and that took the wind outer me. ’Twas an almighty big town, an’ I’d left a village; an’ the valley was choked wi’ buildings, like summer fallow wi’ Russian thistle, an’ there wasn’t any folks to mind Andy MacCaskill. There wasn’t a face to gimme a smile, Rupe. Not an ole pard to call out, ‘Seems like ole times havin’ you around again.’ That’s what my goin’ home was.”

“And what about the girl?” I said.

“Never heard tell of her,” answered the factor morosely.

His mood changed in a moment, and we sprang together from our shake-downs. Above the beating of the rain and the wind, above the shouts of the drinkers below, came the noise of a nearer scuffle, with the brutal laugh of coarse men, the tread of heavy boots, and a feminine voice, half pleading, half in anger. There were no women in Gull!

The passage was gloomy, because evening was closing, and there was only one window to give light, but I had no need to look twice to see a girl, her head and fine hair half-wrapped in a dripping shawl, and this girl struggling in the hands of a half-drunk crowd of lumbermen, shouting their rough jests and brutal suggestions. A beautiful girl in the camp of Gull!

I knew her before I could see her face, and when I did see her rain-marked features, they were more beautiful than ever. She was my faithful maid, my Akshelah!

She put out an arm, the other was held, and called to me:

“I have followed; I have followed, and it has been hard!”

The factor’s story of his life was hot upon my ears, and I heard him saying, “You’ve got to take, and never wait.”

I acted upon this precept. I scattered that rough gang, and sent the men reeling back each way. I rescued Akshelah, swung her lithe figure into our room, where MacCaskill stood bewildered, and stood in the doorway, my arms out, holding at defiance the lumber station of Gull.

AN AFFAIR WITH JAKE PETERSSEN

It had often been my lot to fight the animals and the elements, but now for the first time I faced my fellow-creatures, every one my superior in experience of the world, and every one apparently my inferior in muscle. As I glanced them over I knew that I was strong enough to break most of them up like so many corn-stalks. I could have shouted as depression left me, and glorious life throbbed along every muscle of each limb. There was not a weak spot in my body. My eye was so true that a man might have indicated a spot twenty feet distant and I could have jumped cleanly upon that mark. I was exhilarated as I stood in the doorway, with the whole camp against me. I was soon to learn how fickle a crowd can be.

Behind me stood Akshelah, so that her breath caressed my neck. I put out my hand and pushed her back. The factor stood against the side wall, peering into the passage, fetching breath suddenly.

“I guess you’ll quit, an’ give over the gal, stranger,” a big-bodied man confronted and advised me.

“She’s mine,” I said, and I was glad to find my voice steady and clear.

“She’s come around here,” went on the representative of public opinion. “An’ now she’s a-comin’ down to the saloon to dance to us.”

“I’ll see you all darned,” I said quietly.

A babel of tongues hummed round my head. A mighty shadow appeared to fall, and for one moment I cooled and weakened. A huge negro pushed aside the big-bodied man, and stood within hand-grip of me. He was a hideous creature, his face scarred, his front teeth gone, one ear frozen off, and when he moved I saw that his mighty body was supple and packed with muscle. He wore a loose cotton shirt and white pants, which exaggerated his great size. This apparition glowed upon me with small malevolent eyes, and said:

“’Pears like, stranger, you forgot hittin’ dis chile. Hit him on de nose an’ eye. You take what you give, eh?”

I understood that I was being challenged, and replied: “I guess.”

“You gimme de gal, an’ stop de trubble?” suggested the fearful creature.

I merely replied: “She’s mine.”

“That’s so, boys,” bellowed the revived factor. “The gal’s his, and she followed down here to find him. Where I come from, a feller’s got a right to his own gal.”

“He knocked us around,” said a voice.

“Hit me on de nose an’ eye,” repeated the negro. “No man hit dis chile, an’ not git it back. I’m ready fo’ you.” He slapped his arm. “No knives, no shootin’. Jest strip an’ scrap, and de best scrapper take de gal.”

“I’m ready,” I said.

Old MacCaskill was at my elbow, and Akshelah between us. My partner was cold with excitement.

“The boys’ll be just, Rupe, if you show devil,” he whispered. “It’s Jake Peterssen you’ve got to fight, and they say he’s never ben bested. Keep quiet, and don’t waste yourself. Get at his neck, if you can, and if you can’t, get at the side of his jaw. Mind that--mind, the side of the jaw hard.”