Kate's Narrative
This chapter is so difficult to start. It deals with a time when life had become impossible unless one could jump from here to Wednesday next, and thence to Monday fortnight. Of course the book is only meant for Jesse, for David, for me, and for those to come who may revere us as their ancestors. Thank goodness, I am not a novelist! Think of the fate of the professional writer whose hosts of "characters," the bodiless papery creatures of his brain, will rise up in judgment to accuse their petty creator, to gibber at him, to make his dreams a nightmare. What novelist would escape that condemnation? Dickens might be saved, perhaps Balzac. Tourguenieff maybe, even Kipling, but in Heaven the writers will not be overcrowded.
My characters are ready to hand, and my events are real, but how can I possibly weld the notes inwaiting, to make an harmonious, sane, restful chapter, whose very motif is worry? I give it up, for what am I that I should do this thing?
To three-fourths' pound of artistic temperament, add one cup Celtic blood; stir in a tablespoon of best Italian melody, add humor and laziness to taste; then fry in moonlight over a slow anthem, and there you are. That's me!
As a little girl I would prefer a hobgoblin I couldn't see, to a real doll stuffed with the best sawdust. If there happened to be any day-dreams about, visions or reveries, I would play hostess and be well amused; but fend me from accounts, from business men, and from all the things you catch, such as trains and influenza. Hateful practical affairs have to be faced, but I rush them to get through quick.
Have you noticed that artists who vend feelings as a grocer sells sugar, are always accused of being callous? I sent David with his nurse to stay with Father Jared, so mother called me a cold-blooded wretch. I abandoned my part at the opera to a weird ravening female who can't sing, so my manager called me an atheist. My maids had to pack and run to escape storage with the furniture at the"Pecking and Tootham Emporiums"; my little home passed to a gentleman with mourning nails, diamonds, and a lisp; my bits and scraps of stock were sold and the proceeds banked with the Hudson's Bay Company. Then came casual farewells to baby and Father Jared, and, just as the train pulled out, the district nurse threw a bunch of violets. So I broke down and howled, wondering damply why. Even then I longed for my dear wilderness where every wind blows clean, for the glamour of an austere land braving the naked eternities, the heart of a lonely man who dared to do his duty, all, all that was real and great in life, calling me, calling me home.
The keenest pleasure which ever money gave me came when Billy and I helped in the drafting of a cable order from the Hudson's Bay Company in London to that bland magnifico who manages their branch palace at Vancouver. One always feels that if one happened to want a Paris hat, a bag of nuts, and a monkey, this Vancouver potentate would make a parcel of them without the slightest fear of their getting mixed. As to surprising the company, one might as well tickle the Alps. So here is the telegram:—
"Provide three sleighs, each with two horses; engage two reliable bush teamsters; six months' guaranteed bonus for secrecy and fidelity."Referring to previous requirements of Jesse Smith, load No. 1 sleigh to capacity with provisions, luxuries, ammunition, books, consigned to him via bush trail from 59 Mile House, Cariboo Road. Referring to Captain Taylor's past requirements and present sickness, load No. 2 sleigh with stores invalid comforts, consigned 100 Mile House. Each driver to present load, rig and team, with personal services, and to forward consignee's receipt."Hire third sleigh with team one month, furnish furs on approval, equipment, comforts suitable to bush travel and residence of a lady. Place in charge of young competent civil engineer, bringing instruments and assistant to report to Madame Scotson, arriving Ashcroft Pacific Limited 20 inst."Absolute secrecy required. Charge Scotson."
"Provide three sleighs, each with two horses; engage two reliable bush teamsters; six months' guaranteed bonus for secrecy and fidelity.
"Referring to previous requirements of Jesse Smith, load No. 1 sleigh to capacity with provisions, luxuries, ammunition, books, consigned to him via bush trail from 59 Mile House, Cariboo Road. Referring to Captain Taylor's past requirements and present sickness, load No. 2 sleigh with stores invalid comforts, consigned 100 Mile House. Each driver to present load, rig and team, with personal services, and to forward consignee's receipt.
"Hire third sleigh with team one month, furnish furs on approval, equipment, comforts suitable to bush travel and residence of a lady. Place in charge of young competent civil engineer, bringing instruments and assistant to report to Madame Scotson, arriving Ashcroft Pacific Limited 20 inst.
"Absolute secrecy required. Charge Scotson."
So far the impulse had moved me to be quick before I repented, and the journey gave time for that. Leaving the sweet majesty and serene order of the English landscape, I made the usual passage byS.S. Charonacross the Styx to New York, where I caught a stuffy train for the transit of an untidy continent. And so, in the starry middle of a night, I was met at Ashcroft.
The civil engineer sent by the Hudson's Bay Company was Mr. Sacrifice T. Eure. He stood uncovered, and while his ears froze, spelled his name to me, explaining that there were two syllables in "Eure" with accent on the first. He seemed to convey an offer of protection, to claim my friendship, to take charge of my affairs, and with perfect modesty to let me know that he was competent. Mud-colored hair hung dank over a fine bloodless face with eyes like steel, jaws like iron, accounting, perhaps, for the magnetic charm of his smile. His English was that spoken by gentlefolk, which has the clearness of water, the sparkle of champagne. His accent? How puzzling that is in a stranger's voice! Except when we play Shakespearean drama, we all speak with an accent, American say, or British. This gentleman lacked the primitive manliness which stamps the men of the Dominions. Afterward Mr. Eure confessed himself a native of New England.
He presented his assistant, led me to the sleigh, showed Billy where to stow the luggage, tucked me into some warm furs, congratulated me on escaping the local hotels, then bidding my man and his own to jump in, took the reins and asked which way wewere going. I served as pilot along a trail of poignant memories. Once as we climbed the great steeps northward, I caught the scent of the bull pines, and would have cried but for the cold, which made it much wiser to sniff. Tears freeze.
We slept that night at Hat Creek station, where Tearful George proved a most kindly host. He told me of a loaded sleigh which had passed last week on the way to Jesse's ranch. The teamster was Iron Dale. So far I had wondered whether my name was changing letter by letter from Madame Scotson into Mrs. Grumble, but now the scent of the pines brought ease of mind, and in the great calm of the wilderness one is ashamed to fret.
Our next march brought us rather late for the midday dinner to Fifty-Nine Mile House, which marks the summit of the long climb from Ashcroft to the edge of the black pines. The light was beginning to wane when we set out into that land of silent menace, where black forests cast blue shadows over deathly snow, and the cold was that of the space between the stars. Once we had to pull up to adjust a trace, and in that instant the trees seemed suddenly to have paused from dreadful motion. A snow-covered boulder faced us as though in challenge: "You think I moved?" A deadfall log seemed to ask us: "Did I moan?" A hollow tree became rigid as though it had been swaying, a gaunt pine leaned as though stopped in the act of falling upon our sleigh. All of them, alert and full of menace, watched us. The trees were dead, the water was all frozen, the snow was but a shroud which seemed to lift and creep. What were we doing here in the land of the dead? The shadows closed upon us, a mist rose, flooding over us, and far off the cold split a tree asunder with loud report as of some minute gun.
We drove on, freezing, and right glad I was to be welcomed with all the ruddy warmth and kindly cheer of Eighty Mile House. There we had tea, and secured fresh horses for the last stage of our journey. I learned also that the driver intrusted by the Hudson's Bay Company with provisions for Hundred Mile House had gone off with the team, leaving his sleigh still loaded in Captain Taylor's yard.
The malign bush seemed cowed by sheer immensity of glittering starlight as we drove on. Only once I ventured to speak, asking Mr. Eure to look out for Ninety-Nine Mile House. Horses accustomed to bait there would try to stop. I did not want to stop.
He nodded assent, and, crouched down beside him, I waited until a brave red warmth shone out across the snow from all the lighted windows of Spite House. Mr. Eure lashed his horses, and in a moment more we had passed into the night again. Presently we crossed the little shaky bridge over Hundred Mile Creek, then swung to the left into Captain Taylor's yard. I could see on the right the loom of the old barns, on the left the low house, and at the end one window dimly lighted, which told me my friend still lived. While Tom, the assistant, stabled the team, Mr. Eure and Billy got snow shovels from the barn, and hewed out a way to the deep drifted door at the near end of the building. Presently the Chinese servant let us in, and I made my way through the barroom and dining-hall to that far door on the right. How changed was the grand old Hundred since the days, only five years ago, of pompous assizes, banquets, dances, when these rooms overflowed with light, warmth, and comfort, now dark, in Arctic cold, in haunted silence! I crept into the captain's room, where, in an arm-chair beside the stove, the old manlay. I knelt beside him, taking his dreadfully swollen hand.
"Dear wife," he muttered, whose wife must have been dead full forty years, "this hulk is going to be laid up soon, in Rotten Row. Can't all of us founder in action."
I ran away. But then there was much to be done, fires, lights, supper, beds, and the unloading of the sleigh full of hospital comforts, which would set my patient a great deal more at ease.
When I left my patient, very late that night, supposing all lucky people to be in bed, I found Mr. Eure making himself some tea. Gladly I joined him beside the kitchen stove, ever so pleased with its warmth and the tea, for I was weary, past all hope of any sleep. Besides, the poor man was just dying with curiosity as to our journey and his engagement as my engineer. So, for that one and only time I told the story of Jesse's fate, and mine. The creature would stop me at times to check the pronunciation of words, or note the English manner of placing accents, his own odd way of showing sympathy.
And then I tried to explain the scheme which needed his services as an engineer.
"Let's see," he checked my rambling statement. "Try if I've got all that correct. This Cariboo wagon road runs from Ashcroft to Quesnelle, due north, except at one point where the government wouldn't pay for a bridge across the Hundred Mile gorge.
"So at the ninety-five-mile post the road swings eastward five miles, passing Spite House to the head of the gorge, where it crosses Hundred Mile Creek, right here.
"From here the road turns west again on the north side of the gorge, and after one mile on the level, drops down the Hundred Mile Hill, which is three miles high, and a terror to navigation.
"At the bottom the road turns north again for Quesnelle, at a cabin called the One Hundred and Four where old Pete Mathson lives, a hairy little person, like a Skye terrier with a faithful heart.
"And said Mathson has blazed a cut-off, crossing the foot of the gorge, then climbing by an easy grade to the ninety-five-mile post. The said cut-off is five miles long. Made into a wagon road, it would give a better gradient for traffic, save four miles, employ local labor at a season when money is scant, and be an all-round blessing to mankind.At the foot of the gorge we'd locate the new Hundred Mile House.
"Incidentally, Spite House would be side-tracked, left in the hungry woods four miles from nowhere."
"Tell me," I urged, "what you think."
"My dear madam, when I've made a survey you shall have dates and figures for a temporary snow road, a permanent way, and a house."
"It can be done?"
"Why, certainly."
"You approve?"
"Yes. I see dollars in this, for me."
"You think I'm foolish!"
"It will be an excellent road."
"But the result?"
"Please don't blame the engineer."
"Oh, tell me what you think, as a man."
"Well, let's pretend I'm Polly."
I laughed.
"Being Polly, and from my Polly point of view, frankly, I'm pleased. Here are hundreds of new customers, with Madame Scotson's money to spend at Spite House."
"My men will sign an agreement. The man who visits Spite House forfeits a bonus for good service, loses all outstanding pay, and leaves my camp that day."
"Is that so? Of course the coaches change horses at Spite House."
"When I've bought out the stage company, they'll change horses at the New Hundred."
"And only stop at Spite House for the mails?"
"I shall appeal to the postmaster-general."
"On the ground that you're running a rival house? Captain Taylor, you say, did that."
"My house shall charge nothing. It shall be free, and the visitors my guests."
"Then, in my little Polly way, I'm afraid I'll have to move Spite House down to the new road."
"On to my land?"
"Your cruelty reduces me to tears. I am a martyr. I appeal to the chivalrous public to boycott that new road."
"When I've brought money into the country? Oh, you don't know this hungry neighborhood!"
"Mercy! My client's done for. I'm Madame Scotson's managing engineer. May I ask a plain question?"
"Certainly."
"Is there water-power in this gulch?"
"There's a lovely waterfall."
"I'll look around to-morrow."
And then came Mr. Eure's confession. The assistant, not himself, was a surveyor. "I'm only a paper-maker. I'm looking for cheap timber, good snow for haulage, water-power to mill the lumber into paper-pulp, and a road to market. I've been traveling some months now in search of that combination, and if your lovely waterfall will give me five thousand horse-power, I shall have to build your cut-off road for myself, also the house. Then there'll be war against these black pines, your enemies. As to Spite House, it seems hardly the kind of thing for you to deal with. Perhaps you'll leave that to me."
Jesse's Letter
Mother in Heaven:
Please thank God for me and say I'm grateful. Tell the neighbor angels how little mothers having sons on earth are badly missed and grudged by hungering mortals. Prayers sent to Heaven are answered, but not letters. I reckon no one here could ever write a letter happy enough, so light with joy that it could fly up there. And when I'd a notion to write, in these last years, I knew a heavy letter might reach the wrong address, to make more sorrow in the other place. I've passed the hours writing, times when I had paper, but the stuff I wrote would make no creature happy, except, perhaps, critics, who enjoy to scoff. What can't make happiness is worse than dirt.
In the days when I thought this Jesse person was important, I used to read the Old Testament, which isfull human with pride and arrogance of man. But since I learned that this whole world is only a dream from which we shall awake, the New Testament has been my pasturage. Maybe three moons ago, when my ammunition had run out, and my neighbor animals had learned all the little secrets of my traps and snares, there was no food for the earthly part of me, and I wondered what God was going to do about it. Of course I couldn't question about His business, but seeing that likely He intended me to leave my little worries behind, I made a good fire in the cabin, lay down in the bunk, arranged my body to be in decent order in case I left it, and took my Bible to pass away the time.
I suppose I'd dropped off to sleep, when something rough began to happen, jolting me back into the world of fuss. A man in a buckskin shirt and a bad temper, stamping the snow off his moccasins, shaking me by the arm. He was my old friend Iron Dale, a man of the world—which smashed him.
He seemed to be worried, and that, of course, was natural to a man like Iron, lusty and eager, with an appetite for money—whereas poor Polly had done her best to cure him of his dollars. She is like a dutiful scapegoat eager to carry the burdens of allthe people, but Iron doesn't understand and would carry rocks to the cliffs rather than have no load in a world of workers. Don't you remember, mother, the lesson of the Labrador, "The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." He takes away the things which keep us from Him.
But here was Iron jumping about the cabin, busy as a chipmunk, with just the same hurried, funny way of blaspheming. He had to make fire, cook soup, and haul things in from outdoors, while he told me news about a team, a sleigh, a load of stores for me, and his own services paid up six months ahead if I'd let him work on the ranch. He was like a little boy which plays at keeping store, where you've got to pretend to trade, with nary a smile, lest he should see and the whole game turn unreal. So I sat up for soup, which made my loose skin fit me again as I filled. I'd answer to all he did, grave as a constable, playing the game of life just as I used to.
All of us have to play, at trade, at war, at love, at kingdoms and republics. We play at empire without a grin, we play with serious faces at learning and the arts. Yet all the business of men is like agame of children playing on the sands, as though there were no tide to sweep away our footprints.
I played with Iron at being alive, and he got so damned indulgent I could have smacked his face.
When he'd tended the horses, Iron set up a clock upon the shelf, so I might hear the ticking as time passed. He carried in armloads from the sleigh, he opened cases, he spilled out sacks. He showed me maple syrup, try-your-strength cigars, a dandy rifle with plenty ammunition, books, clothes, candy, a piano which plays itself, then garden seeds, and all sorts of things which you'd have honed for in the long ago. The place was like a barter store, piled to the beams with riches wasted on me, who hadn't a neighbor left. Why, even Iron, who used to think for no one but himself, had a kitten for me, warm in his pocket, and forgotten until a case of hardware squashed out its best Sunday scream. Who'd ever think, too, that so small a bundle of fur and claws should have a purr to fill my whole bed with joy. Surely, I loved this world I'd so nearly quit, when after supper Iron loosed a gramophone. The Hudson's Bay man had shown him a special "record" from England, the angel song in Chopin'sMarche Funèbre. We had that first, the very songshe used to sing in this cabin, times when I reckoned it a shameful thing for any man to cry.
It was Kate's voice.
Oh, tell God, mother, that I'm very grateful. I heard her voice filling this place which used to be her home. Though my wife and I are parted for all our years—love finds a way.
A week or more had passed, and I'd my strength again. The river had frozen so that we could cross to the hunting grounds beyond, and when we came back our camp was full of meat.
I was once rich, before my wealth of memories went bad and turned to pain. I once had peace or thought so, till I found that there is none for men who keep on growing. But wealth of memories, and peace of mind, and humbleness of spirit are but emptiness, and life is a waste until it is filled with love. Iron's kindness to me, the charity which sent me Kate's voice, the love behind the gift which found me dying—these are the things which saved my soul alive. My life must be filled with love, my hours must be deeds of help for others, there must be no more self in me at all. It would be better to be damned and doing good in hell, than to squander love where it runs waste in Heaven.
The truth is scarce, being winnowed by many preachers, and my grains when I try to eat them, are mostly husks. Iron calls me a coward. But Polly only weighs ninety-eight pounds, and I two hundred, so that I couldn't have managed to feel brave fighting her. Then Iron claims it's not the little woman I ought to fight, but the big evil she did in bringing all our settlers to death or ruin. A woman's whim is light as thistle-down, but thistles choke the pasture unless you fight them, and Christ himself fought to the death against the evils which grew rank around him. I doubt I've been a cowardly sort of Christian.
Was I right to live alone? For if this world's a school, I've been a truant. Can I live for self, while all things done for self are only wasted? My place was in the world working for others.
I'd got so far in thinking my morals needed repairs, when a new thing happened, pointing out the way. O'Flynn rode over burning the trail from the Hundred. My wife is there! Although we may not meet, her love has brought her from England to be near me.
O'Flynn has seen my son, he has spoken with Father Jared, he has come with Kate from England,and he left her nursing at Bolt Taylor's bedside. She is sending Surly Brown from Soda Creek with a cable, to build a new scow, and start the ferry again. Ransome Pollock's to manage the Trevor ranch. Iron's to reopen the Sky-line while she makes his peace with the owners—O'Flynn wants to run the packing. She is finding a doctor to take McGee's practise. Tearful George is to buy an imported stallion, and drift him with a bunch of East Oregon mares to stock my empty pastures. The dead settlement is to live again as though there had been no Polly to rob, ruin, and murder among our pioneers. And then my wife will send young Englishmen to school with me for training.
Stroke by stroke this Mr. O'Flynn comes lashing home the news into my hide, as though I were being flogged. He says he hated me always, but never despised me before as he does now. My wife and I should change clothes, only I'd be too useless for a woman. Iron says the same, and in a most unchristian way I thrashed the pair, knocking their heads together, for putting me too much in the wrong while I wanted my breakfast. They think there's something in my argument.
The news is better for being discussed, and bestof all I reckon this man Eure who is to side-track Polly, building a town at the foot of the Hundred Mile Falls. The pines on the high land, too small a trash for lumber, are good enough for pulp to feed a mill, while paper is the plate from which we eat our knowledge. I see the black bush turning into books, the lands in oats or pasture till they're warmed for wheat, and when we come to the rocks there's marble to build colleges for our sons, gold to endow them. The land too poor for any other crop, is best for raising men.
It's only because I'm happy I write nonsense, feeling this night as though I were being cured of all my blindness. I have a sense that though I sit in darkness, my wife is with me, and if my eyes were opened, I should see her. Is it our weakness which gives such strength to love?
Kate's Narrative
Mr. Eure inspected the woods and water-power, then departed for the coast, secretly to buy timber limits, avowedly to find a nurse and a doctor.
Mr. Tom Faulkner, his engineer, surveyed, then let contracts for temporary snow road, log buildings at the falls, and a telegraph line which would secure our business from being known at Polly's post-office.
Mr. Dale reopened the Sky-line mines, pending my arrangement with the owners.
Mr. Surly Brown placed a cable and built a scow in readiness to renew his ferry business.
Mr. Tearful George placed loads of forage a day's march apart across the forest, then drifted live stock into Jesse's ranch.
Father Jared sought out young gentlemen to be trained at Jesse's "School of Colonial Instruction."
Mr. William O'Flynn became bartender, despatch rider, stable man, general adviser, and commander-in-chief at the Hundred.
A bewildered Chinaman, with a yellow smile, cooked, scrubbed, chattered pidgin-English, and burned incense to Joss in the kitchen.
And I, Kate, was busy nursing and keeping house, with never a moment to spare for the specters which thronged our forest. After the snow road diverted traffic, my one visitor was Pete Mathson, who on Saturdays climbed the long hill for his rations. When my patient was well enough, he would talk with "Bolt" Taylor about old times in the gold mines, or on the high technic of pack-train harness, above the comprehension of a woman.
Until the nurse came I was with my patient always, and slept in the same close room. On her arrival—how I envied that pretty uniform—Nurse Panton proceeded to set us all to rights. She was a colorless creature, supported by routine as by a corset, and Billy informed me that she needed to be shocked thoroughly. He told her that the patient, being a sailor, wanted the nursing done shipshape and Bristol fashion. Nurse and I were to have each four hours on and four off, with two dog or halfwatches, which would daily reverse the order, so giving us the middle watch by turns. Nurse was indignant at the very idea, and finding me on Billy's side, protested to the captain. "Capital!" said he, delighted at any chance of shaking up the long monotony of illness. "You'll strike the bells as we do at sea," he said, "two for each hour."
Of course the first of the nursing ten commandments is, "Pretend to agree with the patient;" but then the naval officer, if he missed his bells, would awake with horrible deep-sea oaths, and "Stop her grog," so that she got no tea except by obedience.
Whether relieved at midnight or at fourA.M. I would put on my furs for a little prowl outdoors. To leave the house when it was forty degrees below zero, felt like the plunge into an icy bath, but gave the same refreshment afterward. And it was good to watch the ghostly dances of the northern lights fill the whole sky with music visible.
Once setting out on such an excursion I traversed the dining-hall, entered the dark barroom, and opened the inner door which gave upon the porch. But this time I could not push the storm door open. Something resisted, something outside thrusting atthe panels, something alive. I fell back against the bar, imagining bears, burglars, bogies, anything, while I listened, afraid to breathe.
It was then I heard a voice, a girlish voice outside in the Arctic cold, chanting in singsong recitation as though at school:
"Bruce, Bruce; Huron, Desoronto; Chatham Cayuga; Guelph—not Guelph—oh, what comes after Cayuga?" Then feeble hands battered against the door, "Teacher! Teacher!"
But when I opened the door, the girl stepped back afraid.
"You're not the teacher," she said; "oh, tell me before she comes. Sixty-six counties and the towns have all got mixed."
"Come in and let me tell you."
"I daren't! I daren't! You're not the teacher. This is not the school. You'll take me back!"
She turned, trying to run away, but her legs seemed wooden, and she slid about as though she were wearing clogs.
"I won't," she screamed, "I won't go back!" Then she fell.
"Dear child, you shan't go back."
But still she shrank from me. "Oh, leave me alone!" she pleaded.
"Mayn't I give you some tea?"
"You won't take me back to Spite House?"
"Not to that dreadful place."
"Do you keep girls, too?"
"There's only a nurse, and a poor dying man."
"And you'll hear me the counties of Ontario?"
"Why, yes, dear."
"I'll come then," but as she tried to get up, "it's cramp," she moaned.
"Dear child, you're freezing."
"I'm not cold, it's cramp."
She must have fallen through the snow which covered our water-hole, for she was literally incased in ice up to the breasts.
Finding I had not strength to carry her, I shouted for the nurse, who roused Billy, and then the Chinaman. Together we carried her indoors, gave her brandy, and laid her, dressed as she was, in Captain Taylor's bath. Then while Billy rode hard for a doctor, nurse and I filled the bath with freezing water, which for eight hours we kept renewed with ice. Drawn gently from her body, the frost formed a film of ice upon the surface, but she assured methat she felt quite warm, without the slightest pain. To sustain her I gave liquid food at intervals, and quite clear now in her mind, even cheerfully she trusted me with her story.
She told me of a village among vineyards, overlooking Lake Ontario, just where a creek comes tumbling down from the Niagara heights. Her father, a retired minister, wasted his narrow means in trying to raise the proper grapes for sacramental wine. Mother was dead, and nine small children had to be fed and clothed, to appear with decency at church and school, so that they would not be ashamed among the neighbors. "You see," she added primly, "I'm the eldest, the only one grown up, so, of course, I couldn't be spared to stay at college." And there was little to earn in the village, much to do taking a mother's place.
Then Uncle John found an advertisement in the paper. A governess was wanted for four children somewhere in British Columbia. The wages were so generous that there would be enough to spare for helping father. It meant so much of proper food, and good warm clothing for the younger children. So references were exchanged with Mr. Brooke, who wrote most charming letters, andUncle John lent money for the journey. My little schoolma'am pursed her lips severely over that loan, which must be repaid by instalments. Then her eyes shone with tears, and her face quivered, all the scholastic manner quite gone, for she spoke of the sad parting with everybody she loved, then of the long nights, the lonely days of that endless journey across the continent.
Mr. Brooke met Jenny at Ashcroft, and took her by sleigh nearly a hundred miles, getting more and more familiar and horrid until, in a state of wild fear of him, she ran for safety into a drunken riot at Spite House. The waitresses were rude and cruel, Polly lay drunk on the floor. There were no children.
Afterward I learned from Mr. Eure that I was a prejudiced witness, without a shred of evidence, that no court would listen to hearsay, and that the dying girl's confession would not be allowed in court except it were made under oath before a magistrate. Poor Jenny would never have told any man what happened at Spite House; she would not have given the last sane moments of her life to vengeance; and so there was no case against eitherBrooke or Polly in a crime which had earned them penal servitude.
Vengeance? I think our prayers together did more good, and when the time came for Jenny's removal to a bed of lint soaked in carbolic oil, she was prepared to face the coming pain.
"Shall I die?" she asked. I could only kiss her.
"Then," she said, "even if it isn't true, tell papa I died game."
She was Canadian, and there is valor in that blood.
Before she was moved, Doctor Saunderson, of Clinton, had taken charge, and since we lacked petroleum enough for a bath, approved what we had done. He used opiates, but the pain, after a frostbite is thawed, is that which follows burning. On the third day came exhaustion—and release.
I was obliged to give evidence at the inquest, and my profession has taught me quietness, restraint, simplicity. The coroner might talk law, but I was dealing with men, it was my business to make them cry. There was no case against Brooke, but from that time onward visitors to Spite House were treated as lepers until they left the country.
For the rest, I would not be present either at the funeral or at the public meeting, or see the press man who came up from Ashcroft, or discuss the matter with any of my neighbors.
The theme was one distasteful to any woman with claims to decency. These things are not discussed. And even if through misfortune my relationship with Jesse became a common scandal, at least I need not share the conversation. To make a scene, to discuss my affairs with strangers, to seek public sympathy, were things impossible. Yet I heard enough. The waitresses were gone from Spite House, the constable was dismissed from his position; the business of the post-office and stage-line were transferred to Mr. Eure's stopping-place at the falls. Brooke and Polly were left alone, with no power, it seemed then, for any further mischief.
Until it actually happened, I never expected that Brooke would visit me, but perhaps from his point of view the event was piquant. His betrayal of Billy's father to the gallows, of Jesse and myself to Polly's vengeance, and of an innocent lady to ruin, and death by cold, might have made even Brooke suspect he would not be welcomed. But then Billy was away, the gentleman had a revolver, and neither the nurse, the Chinaman, nor myself were dangerous. Hearing a horse at the door, I went to the barroom, and dodged behind the bar or he would have shaken hands.
While he was actually present it did not occur to me that there might be danger. I was conscious of aromas from stale clothes and cigars, liquor, perfumes, and hair-oil; I noted the greasy pallor which comes of a life by lamplight; and while Brooke was Brooke, he had to dress his part. As a professional gambler, he wore long hair, mustache and imperial, broadcloth and black slouch hat, celluloid "linen" and sham diamonds. To these the climate added bright yellow moccasins, and a fur coat of the hairiest, the whole costume keyed up to Sunday best. Dirty and common, of course, yet let me in justice own that Brooke was handsome, frank, and magnetic as of old. Even the ravages of every vice had left him something of charm, his only asset in the place of manhood.
No, I was not frightened, but as a daughter of Eve a little curious to know what brought him, and not quite fool enough to run the risk of showing any temper.
When I asked him to state his business, with alarge gesture he claimed the visitor's drink. It is an old custom, which I broke.
"You think I'm a villain?"
I made no comment.
"I've come to thank you, ma'am. If you'd pressed that girl's case it might have been well—awkward."
I told him that had I known the law, I should have done my best to get him penal servitude for life.
"That's straight," he answered indulgently, "you always were clear grit, and that's why I want—well, ma'am," he lowered his eyes, "I'm going to confess. You don't mind?" he added.
My eyes betrayed my one desire, escape, but he stood in the doorway leading to the house.
"Your presence," I said, "is distasteful. Please, will you let me pass?"
"Not till I've set things straight."
There was no bell with which to summon help, and I should have been ashamed to make a scene.
"Go on," I said.
"I dunno how you feel, mum, about life. I've been disappointed, starting in with ideals, and they're gone. I'm as straight as the world will let me, without my going hungry."
Let me here quote one of Jesse's letters to his mother. "This Brooke and I grew our beef and matured our horns on the same strong pasture, but where a homely face kept me out of temptation, he had what you call beauty, and I'd call vanity. Instead of trying tobe, he aimed to act. He'd play cow-boy, or robber, or gambler, things he could neverbe, because he's not a man. He could wear the clothes, the manners, the talk, and pass himself off for real. The women who petted him sank and were left in the lurch. The men who trusted him were shot and hanged. That made him lonesome, gave him the melancholy past, the romantic air, the charm—all stock in trade. Long hair costs nothing, he pays no dog tax, but life is too rich for his blood, and in the end he'll die of it like Judas. Say, mother, wasn't there a Mrs. Judas Iscariot? She must have been a busy woman to judge by the size of the Iscariot family."
"Yes," Brooke sighed, "I'm a disillusioned, disappointed man."
I had a curious sense that this actor of life was trying to be real, and in the attempt he posed.
"Not that I claim," he went on, "that Spite House is anyways holy. It's not. Of course, a sportingand gambling joint meets a demand, a regrettable demand, a thing we both abhor and would like to be shut of. But since demand creates the supply, let's have it in high-toned style, not run by thugs. That's what I say."
His spacious benevolence seemed to confer partnership, yet to be shocked at my immoral tendencies.
"However," he sighed, "it's over. It's done with, shoved aside. There was money in it, but small money, and we pass on. Old Taylor may have told you that as far back as November we decided, Mrs. Smith and me, to run the house as a first-class resort for tourists. We bought the Star Pack-train from Taylor, and the old cargador is making our new riggings."
This was news indeed!
"Of course pack-trains as such are out of date as Noah's ark, and we've got to march with the procession. You'll see in this prospectus," he held out a paper, "well, I'll read it. Let's see—yes—'Forest Lodge, long under the able management of Mrs. Jesse Smith, with great experience in' * * * no, it's further on—'Forest Lodge is the natural center for parties viewing the wondrous wilds.' That should grip them, eh? 'Experienced guideswith pack and saddle animals from the famous Staratajo,' we can't call them mules, of course, 'will escort parties visiting the sceneries and hunting grounds of the Coast Range, the Cariboo, the Omenica, the Babine, and the Cassiar.' That ought to splash!"
Billy had warned me of bad characters settled on the lands toward Jesse's ranch. Were these Brooke's "experienced guides"?
"Naturally," Brooke folded his prospectus, "the sporting trade had to be closed right down before the tourist connection took a hold. Millionaire sportsmen out to spend their dollars, expect to find things just so. They want recherché meals, and unique decorations, real champagne wine, and everything 'imported' even when it's made on the spot. They don't make no hurroar over losing a few thousands at cards, but they just ain't going to stand seeing Polly laying around drunk on the barroom floor. I tell you when they comes I ain't going to have Polly around my place. That's straight. She'll get her marching orders P. D. Q."
So Polly was next for betrayal.
"Yes." Brooke became very confidential. "What I require at Forest Lodge is a real society hostess,a lady. Yes, that's what's the matter—a lady. Now that's what I come about. Ever since I seen you Mrs., I mean madam, I mean—"
He became quite diffident, leaving the doorway, leaning over the counter.
"Would you—" he began, "would you be prepared, ma'am, to—"
My way was clear, and I ran.
It often seemed to me that Jesse's life and mine were veiled in some strange glamour of a directed fate. Little by little, in ever so slow degrees this mist was lifting, and I began to feel that soon the air would clear, giving us back to blessed commonplace. Through no act of mine, but by Brooke's incompetence, the prosperous business of Spite House had been brought to ruin.[A]Polly was drinking herself to death, and presently would find herself betrayed by that same callous treachery which had wrought such havoc in my dear man's life and mine.
Billy had held these last few weeks that Polly's funds were gone, that she was penniless. He begged me to let him destroy the great sign-board across the road to Spite House. Failure to renewthat would indeed be conclusive proof of the woman's penury, but the meanness of such a test revolted me, for one does not strike a fallen adversary.
Were there any funds to promote black pines and mosquitoes as an attraction to millionaires? Brooke in his folly had divulged that foolish scheme, sufficient to complete the ruin of a poor wretched woman, before he abandoned her interests to seek his own. Was it true? I went straight to Captain Taylor.
For a week past my refractory patient had insisted upon living entirely upon cheese, a seemingly fatal diet, which to confess the truth had done him a world of good. Save for the loss of his sight he was quite his dear old self and glad of a gossip.
"Yes, Kate," he chuckled, "the murder's out at last. You see I'm not exactly prosperous, and my retired pay is a drop in my bucket of debts. And then our good friend Polly invested all her wealth in buying up the mortgage on this ranch."
"But why?"
"For fun. For the pleasure of turning me out. She kindly granted me permission to sleep in that old barrel which used to belong to my fox, but thenyou see I really couldn't be under any obligations to the lady."
"Did you pay off the mortgage?"
"I did. So Polly strums rag-time tunes on my piano, Brooke wears my early Victorian frock coat, they serve their beans and bacon with my family plate, the gentleman sports my crest, the lady has my dear mother's diamonds which are really paste. My dear, they're county society—you really must call and leave cards."
"But the portraits!"
"They stared at me so rudely that I burnt them. Ancestors ought to remember they're dead, and they'd rather be burned, too, than be claimed as Polly's aunts."
"And the Star Pack-train?"
"A half-interest, my dear, a half-interest, that's all."
"So you're in partnership?"
"Why, no. Fact is, old Pete has been working thirty-five years, with his faithful eyes shining behind that hair—it's silver now, eh? Well, I couldn't leave him in the lurch. And there's the Hudson's Bay to consider, with forts up north depending on us for supplies. And I suppose, when I come tothink of it, I'm rather proud of the outfit. So, in my sentimental way, I made a deed by which Pete is managing owner, with a half-interest, while Polly is sleeping partner with no right to interfere."
"You've told Pete?"
"No. I suppose I've got to own up?"
"You don't want Pete to be cheated by his partners."
"You're right. Just open my desk and look inside. It's the paper on top."
I found and read the deed.
"You've read it, of course," I said.
"It was read to me by the lawyer chap. Isn't it all right?"
"Oh, yes," I managed to say, "it's all right—such funny legal jargon."
I looked at the names of the witnesses, Cultus McTavish and Low-lived Joe, the worst characters in our district. The document read to the old blind man had been no doubt destroyed. The deed actually signed made Polly sole owner of the famous pack-train. My friend had been cheated.
Kate's Narrative
It was sixty degrees below zero. The moonlight lay in silver on the pines, the hundred-and-four-mile cabin, deep buried among the drifts, glittered along the eaves with icicles, the smoke went up into the hush of death, and the light in the frosted window would glow till nearly dawn.
Within, Pete sat upon his shiny bench, rolling waxed end upon his shiny knee, and tautened his double stitches through the night, scarcely feeling the need of sleep. His newaparejos, stacked as they were finished, had gradually crowded poor Mrs. Pete into her last stronghold, the corner between the wood-box and the bunk. Fiercely she resented the filling of her only room with harness, of her bunk with scrap leather, which scratched her, she said. Wedged into her last corner, she wouldpatch disgraceful old socks, while Pete at his sewing croonedOne More River, or some indecent ballad of the gold mines.
"Mother," Pete would look up from his bench. "You mind when I brung her here right to this very cabin, with Father Jared, and the Baby, David?"
"What makes you hover, Pete?"
"D'ye mind Baby David?"
"Didn't I nurse him?" said the old woman softly. "He'd red hair like his stuck-up mother, blue eyes same as Jesse, and a birthmark on his off kidney. Now, did you ask her about that birthmark?"
"I told her," said Pete, "that a suspicious female, with a face like a grebe and an inquirin' mind is wishful to inspeck Dave's kidneys."
Mother wagged her head. "I own I'd like to believe Kate Smith is back in this country, but you're such a continuous and enduring liar."
"That's so," said Pete.
One day when the sun shone brightly into the cabin, Billy arrived with a letter from Captain Taylor. Pete would not give it to mother, or read it aloud, or even tell the news. He danced an ungainly hornpipe, and mother had to shake him.
"Can a woman's tender careCease toward the child She—Bear?In the Old townTo-night my ba-Bee!"
"Now what on airth's the matter with yew?" mother boiled over.
"Yes, she may forgetful Bee,Yet will I—remember Me.
"Finish them riggings by first May, says he.
"Says the old ObadiahTo the young Obadiah,Obadiah, Obadiah!Oh, be damned!
"Says I'm partner and boss of the outfit, and running the whole shootin' match, and I'll get more wealth than'll patch hell a mile, and
"Thar's none like Nancy Lee, I trow,Ow! Ow!
"Oh, mother, Bolt's give me a half-interest, and ain't this a happy little home, my darlin'!"
At that Mrs. Pete flung her skinny arms around his neck, and the two silly old things sobbed together.
A week later, when, to save Pete a long tramp, Billy rode down with the rations, he found the old people concerned "about this yere partnership."
"Mother allows this Brooke is trash," said Pete, wagging his snowy head, "and for all the interest he takes he's mostly corpse. Thar's shorely holes in my 'skito bar."
Billy read the letter thoughtfully.
"Brooke been to see the riggings?" he asked.
"Once in December. He don't know nothin', either."
"Wonder what he wants?"
"Smells mean, eh?"
"A mean smell, Pete."
Billy had spent the week tracking down the two bad characters who had served as witnesses to a false agreement. Their confession was now in evidence against Brooke, in case he dared repudiate Mathson's rights as partner, but there was no need to alarm the cargador. So Billy changed the subject, demanding tea, and there was a fine gossip.
"Mr. O'Flynn," asked mother, "hev yew bin in love?"
"Engaged," said Billy in triumph.
"Dew tell!"
"Yes, to Madame Scotson's nurse over in England."
"Does she patch your socks?"
"Now, mother," Pete interrupted, "when you was courting me did you patch my socks?"
"Wall, I—"
"Come to think," said the cargador, "I didn't have them, being then in the Confederate army. But, mother, you did sure scratch my face!"
"Wall, that's no dream," said mother, bridling.
Once after his Saturday's tramp up the great hill, Pete returned looking very old. "I axed Bolt," he explained, "about this yere partnership."
"Well?" asked mother sharply. "Well?"
"Bolt says thar's pigs with pink bows to their tails, just stretchin' and stretchin' around his sty."
The old woman turned her back, for Pete was crying.
In April there came a rush of warmth out of the west, licking up all the snow, save only on that high plateau where the Hundred and Spite House seemed to wait and wait in the white silence.
The spring storms came, the rains changed to snow, the snow changed to rain, with hail-storms, and thunder rolling over snow. The cheeky littlebuttercups peeped up through the tails of the snowdrift, and far away, below Jesse's ranch in the Fraser cañon, the Star brand mules worshiped their old bell mare among the marigolds. The ground was bare now about Pete's cabin, all sodden pine chips to the edge of the rain-drenched bush, and the willow buds were bursting.
Pete sat under a roof of cedar shakes which he had built to shelter the new "riggings." Around him in a horseshoe stood fifty completeaparejos, each with coiled lash and sling rope underneath, breeching and crupper,sovran helmoandcinchas, sweat pad, blanket, andcorona, while the head-ropes strapped themantasover all. He was riveting the last of sixty hackamores, as he dreamed of the great north trail, of open meadows by the Hagwilgaet, of the heaven-piercing spire of Tsegeordinlth at the Forks of Skeena.
"Mother," he said, "I'm no slouch of a cargador. Them red gin cases is still to rig for kitchen boxes, and it's all complete. The mules is fattening good, I hear, and the men's the same as last summer, all worth their feed, too."
But mother, grim and fierce in the throes of her spring cleaning, had not come to admire. "Pete,"she shrilled, "two more buckets of water, and yew jest git a move on. And how long hev yew bin promisin' to whittle me them clothes-pins? Now jest yew hustle, Pete, or I'll get right ugly."
Pete only cut from the plug into his palm, and rolled the tobacco small for his corn-cob pipe. His winter servitude was ended, and he was master, the cargador before whom all men bow in the dread northlands. Mother went off content to carry her own water, and Pete, with something of a flourish, lighted his pipe.
"Mother!" Pete let out a sharp call, and forgetting her business, mother came quite humbly, as though to heel. "Yes, Pete?"
He pointed with his pipe at a distant horseman rounding the flank of the hill.
"Brooke?" she whispered, both gnarled rheumatic hands clutched at her heart.
"I reckon," said Pete cheerfully. "Thinks he's a circus procession. That sorrel's clattering a loose near-hind shoe, and her mouth just bleeding as he saws with that spade bit. He's a sure polecat. Trots down-hill, too, and suffers in his tail. Incompetent, mother. Look at his feet! He's bad as a stale salmon, rotten to the bones. Been drinking, too."
Brooke drew up and dismounted, leaving his rein on the horse's neck, instead of dropping it to the ground. When Brooke moved to sit on anaparejo, Pete ordered him to one of the kitchen boxes. "Not Bolt hisself may sit onmyriggings," said the old gray cargador.
"I thought," said Brooke quite kindly, "that this harness was mine."
"A half-interest," said mother, "sure-ly."
"I fear," said Brooke, "you sort of misunderstood. Old Taylor did say something about your usefulness as a working partner, and, of course, if we hadn't canceled that preposterous contract with the Hudson's Bay Company, there's no doubt your knowledge of the country up north would have been worth paying for. It was, as you say, damned awkward about his being blind as a bat; in fact, I was put to quite a lot of trouble getting the agreement witnessed. However," he produced a document which mother snatched, "it's all there in black and white, and there's the old fool's signature—holds good in any court of law—proves that I've bought and paid for the wholeatajo. You needn't claim I haven't a clear title—so you needn't stare atme as if I'd forged the signature. It's straight goods, I tell you."
Mother reeled backward, while she grabbed Pete's shoulders so that the agreement fluttered to Brooke's feet. She steadied herself, then with a husky croak, "You made Bolt signthat—blind, dying, so he dunno what's on the paper."
"Can you prove that?" asked Brooke indulgently, as though he spoke to children. "If you say things like that, it's criminal libel, and you're both liable to the Skookum House. However," he shrugged his shoulders, and put the agreement away, "I don't want to be hard on you, Pete."
"Mister Mathson," mother hissed at him.
Pete, with a whispered word to mother, rose from his bench, and without appearing to see Mr. Brooke, walked past him across the sunlit yard, and on slowly up the great lifting curve of the road to Hundred Mile House.
The sun was setting behind him when Pete rested at last upon the snowclad summit, and dusk lay in lakes of shadow far below him. At the Hundred he found the lamps alight, and, as usual, Billy offered him a drink. "I ain't drinking," said Pete huskily, as he lurched past the bar into the dining-hall, and on to the little room on the right where Captain Taylor lay.
"Bolt!" he whispered.
"That you, Pete? Sit down," said the boss cheerily. "How's the claim, Pete? Getting coarse gold, eh?"
"Gold? Say, Bolt, what's the matter, old fellow?"
"Matter? Why, nothing, Pete," the blind eyes shone keenly; "of course I'm not nearly to bedrock yet, and as to what I owe you've jolly well got to wait. How's old Calamity? I got Lost Creek Jim to work at last."
Was the boss dreaming of old times on Lightning Creek?
"Watty's in with the mail," said Bolt.
Watty had been dead these thirty years.
Then Pete sat down on the bedside, and the two miners prattled about the new flume, and the price of flour in a camp now overgrown with jungle.
A word to Billy would have been enough to get theaparejosto a place of safety, pending the settlement of Pete's just claim as partner. But the cargador knew well that death had come to take the one man he loved. This was no time for sordidbusiness, disturbing Bolt Taylor's peace. It was better to go quietly.
* * * * * *
The sky was full of stars as Pete went homeward. The stars were big and round; the forest in an ecstasy kept vigil all alert, all silent, and the little streams of the thaw were saying their prayers before the frost sleep of the later hours. The man was at peace. It is not so very much to be cargador; but it is a very big thing indeed to be unselfish. The trees kept vigil, the little streams crooned sleepy prayers, the stars in glory humbly served as lamps, and the man made no cry in his pain. Far down in the valley he saw a red flame rise.
* * * * * *
Mother saw Brooke ride off to inspect his Star mules in their pasture far away down the Fraser Cañon. She blacked the stove with malice, she shook the bedding in enmity, set the furniture to rights as though it were being punished, then sat on the damp floor brooding, while twilight deepened over a world of treachery. Brooke was a thief, thelying boss had used Pete and thrown him away wrung dry. And Pete was an old fool who would forgive.
She had dreaded the lonely summer when she was left with only squirrels for company. Now Pete would be "settin'" around, ruined, and out of work, the man who had been used and thrown aside, the laughing-stock of the teamsters who saw his pride brought low.
Cold and hot by turns, mother made herself tidy against Pete's return, got the supper ready, and sat watching the door-step. She smoked his spare corn-cob pipe devising vengeance, while the night closed over her head.
The frontier breeds fierce women, with narrow venomous enmities toward the foes of the house. Even if Pete suffered, Brooke should not prosper, or the boss who had failed her man. Mother dragged two five-gallon cans of petroleum from the lean-to, and staggering under their weight, poured the oil over all Brooke's harness. Breathing heavily with her labor, she carried loads of swampy hay, and cord-wood, until theaparejoswere but part of a bonfire. Then with a brand from the stove she setthe hay alight. There should be no public shame to break Pete's heart, there should be no pack-train unless he were cargador.
Pete stood beside the ashes, searching mother's face with his slow brooding eyes. Her burning rage was gone, and she was afraid, for now she thought too late of all his loving pride in the work, the greatness of the thing which his knowledge and skill had made.Thatshe had burned. Understanding how love had made this blunder, Pete said no word. He only knew that Bolt had paid him seven hundred dollars in cash and kind, which must be returned. In silence he turned away, and once more faced the terrible hill which led to the Hundred Mile House.
* * * * * *
The spring was in my blood, and I could not sleep. Can any creature sleep when the spring's sweet restless air calls to all nature? The bears were about again after their winter sleep, busy with last year's berries. The deer were feasting on new grass down in the lowlands, the wolverines and cougar were sneaking homeward after the night's hunting. Even the little birds were coming back to the north, for now and again as I strolled along theroad I would hear a sleepy twitter. "Isn't it dawn yet?" "Not yet, have another nap." So I came to the brow of the great hill whence I should see the dawn.
Down in the lower country, on every pool the water-fowl lay abed, each, from the biggest goose to the littlest teal, with its head tucked under cover of a wing, and one quaint eye cocked up to catch the glint of dawn. A wan light was spreading in the northeastern sky, and presently the snowy brow of the hill revealed its wrinkled front, its frozen runnels. The sentinels of the wild fowl saw that first gleam of coming day, called the reveille along from pool to pool, roused thunder of innumerable wings, marshaled their echelons in soaring hosts, and broke away in the northward flight of spring. Far in the east a lone moose trumpeted.
I was turning back refreshed toward my duty, when I heard something moan. The sound came from underneath a pine tree, the one at the very top of the long climb which Pete had blazed with his inscription, "Got thar." With my heart in my mouth I went to find out what was the matter, and so discovered the old cargador crouched down against the trunk.
"Pete," I asked in a very shaky voice, "what on earth's the matter?"
"Dying, mum."
"But it's too damp here. Why, you'll catch your death of cold."
"That would never do. Say, mum, how's Bolt?"
"Oh, ever so much better."
"Can't do it," said Pete, "if I died first he'd have the joke on me."
"Wouldn't you like a hot rum?"
Pete staggered to his feet. "I'd go for that," he sighed, "just like one man."
So he took my arm, and I helped him along the road.
"She burned them riggings," he said.
"Mother?"
"Yes. Brooke came inspecting them riggings, so mother burned 'em."
"Won't that be rather awkward?"
"Some. You see, mum, Bolt paid me four hundred and five dollars cash, so I come to return him the money."
I didn't quite understand. "You see, Pete," I suggested, "you and Brooke are the owners. Don't you owe half to yourself and half to Brooke?"
"Well, if that's so, I'll pay myself and owe the rest to Brooke. But then he claims the whole Staratajo."
"In that case you owe the whole of the money to Brooke."
"I don't mind owing Brooke." Pete felt so much better that he was able to walk without help. "Brooke's gone on to inspect mules. I wonder how he'll get on with them mules?"
As it happened, Jesse was an actual witness to Mr. Brooke's inspection of the Star mules at their pasture below his ranch. Here is his narrative:
"Mules are the most religious of all animals. They believe in the bell mare, who creates grass, water, mud holes, and mosquitoes, and leads them in the paths of virtue where they don't get any fun. And when they worship her too much she kicks them in the stomach.
"The trouble for these poor mules was that they followed a false goddess. Their bell mare Prue ought to have been old enough to know better, but at the age of twenty-three, with gray hair and bald withers, she was still female.
"She and her mules had been grazing maybe half a mile when my new stallion, young Jehoshaphat,happened along with his harem of twenty-five mares, smelling down wind for a drink. The mares looked so snug and grass-fat they could scarcely waddle, but Jehoshaphat was full of sinful pride, waltzing high steps at the sight of Prue.
"You should have seen Prue playing up innocent modesty in front of Jehoshaphat, pretending she wasn't there, making believe he was too sudden, didn't approve of the gentleman, flattering his vanity with all sorts of airs and graces. He up with his tail and showed off, prancing around pleased as Punch. Prue paraded herself along in front of the harem to spite the married mares, and all her mules came worshiping along in pursuit. Those mares gave the mules the biggest kicking you ever saw in your life.
"There was me lying on Face Rock like a little boy at a circus, and there was the performance proceeding so joyful that I never saw Brooke until he rode down right into the middle of the fun. Jehoshaphat got mad and went for Brooke, chasing him around the pasture. Prue chased Jehoshaphat, the mules chased Prue, the harem mares bit and kicked at everybody, Brooke galloped delirious in all directions, and I laughed until I could hardly hold down the rocks.
"Of course, if Brooke hadn't been a mere mistake on earth, he would have herded gently to the nearest corral, and cut the two outfits apart. But Brooke proceeded to lose his temper, pulled his gun, jumped his wretched sorrel behind a tree, and let drive. He missed the stallion. He shot Prue through the heart.
"There was nothing after that to keep the sixty Star mules together. Some went up the cañon, some down, a few even swam the Fraser, but the heft of them climbed the big cliffs and vanished into the forest.
"I reckon Pete and hisarrieroscould collect those mules and break them to loving a newmadrina. But with Brooke as cargador, the great Star Pack-train's numbered with the past, and Mathson's partnership is scarce worth arguing.
"I was sorry to see the fine mules lost, and in my grief I kicked Brooke about one-third of a mile on his way home afoot."