“Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home,Your house is on fire, and your children all gone.”
The remedy was good. Tarboe’s eyes came again to their natural liveliness, and Bissonnette said:
“My throat’s like a piece of sand-paper.”
Tarboe handed over a brandy flask, after taking a pull himself, and then sitting down on one of the kegs, he said: “It is as you see, and now Angel Point very quick. To get it there safe, that’s the thing!” Then, scanning the sky closely: “It’s for a handsome day, and the wind goes to bear us up fine. Good! Well, for you, Bissonnette, there shall be a thousand dollars, you shall have the Belle Chatelaine Inn and the little lady at Point Pierrot. For the rest, you shall keep a quiet tongue, eh? If not, my Bissonnette, we shall be the best of strangers, and you shall not be happy. Hein?”
Bissonnette’s eyes flashed. “The Belle Chatelaine? Good! That is enough. My tongue is tied; I cannot speak; it is fastened with a thousand pegs.”
“Very good, a thousand gold pegs, and you shall never pull them. The little lady will have you with them, not without; and unless you stand by me, no one shall have you at any price—by God!”
He stood up, but Joan put out her hand. “You have been speaking, now it is my turn. Don’t cry cook till you have the venison home. What is more, I gave my word to Gobal, and I will keep it. I will be captain. No talking! When you’ve got the kegs in the cellar at Angel Point, good! But now—come, my comrades, I am your captain!”
She was making the thing a cheerful adventure, and the men now swung the kegs on their shoulders and carried them to the boat. In another half-hour they were under way in the gaudy light of an orange sunrise, a simmering wind from the sea lifting them up the river, and the grey-red coast of Labrador shrinking sullenly back.
About this time, also, a Government cutter was putting out from under the mountain-wall at Quebec, its officer in command having got renewed orders from the Minister to bring in Tarboe the smuggler. And when Mr. Martin, the inspector in command of the expedition, was ordered to take with him Mr. Orvay Lafarge and five men, “effectively armed,” it was supposed by the romantic Minister that the matter was as good as done.
What Mr. Orvay Lafarge did when he got the word, was to go straight to his hat-peg, then leave the office, walk to the little club where he spent leisure hours, called office hours by people who wished to be precise as well as suggestive,—sit down, and raise a glass to his lips. After which he threw himself back in his chair and said: “Well, I’m particularly damned!” A few hours later they were away on their doubtful exploit.
II. THE DEFENCE
On the afternoon of the second day after she left Labrador, the Ninety-Nine came rippling near Isle of Fires, not sixty miles from her destination, catching a fair wind on her quarter off the land. Tarboe was in fine spirits, Joan was as full of songs as a canary, and Bissonnette was as busy watching her as in keeping the nose of the Ninety-Nine pointing for Cap de Gloire. Tarboe was giving the sail full to the wind, and thinking how he would just be able to reach Angel Point and get his treasure housed before mass in the morning.
Mass! How many times had he laughed as he sat in church and heard the cure have his gentle fling at smuggling! To think that the hiding-place for his liquor was the unused, almost unknown, cellar of that very church, built a hundred years before as a refuge from the Indians, which he had reached by digging a tunnel from the shore to its secret passage! That was why the customs officers never found anything at Angel Point, and that was why Tarboe much loved going to mass. He sometimes thought he could catch the flavour of the brands as he leaned his forehead on the seat before him. But this time he would go to mass with a fine handful of those gold pieces in his pocket, just to keep him in a commendable mood. He laughed out loud at the thought of doing so within a stone’s throw of a fortune and nose-shot of fifty kegs of brandy.
As he did so, Bissonnette gave a little cry. They were coming on to Cap de Gloire at the moment, and Tarboe and Joan, looking, saw a boat standing off towards the mainland, as if waiting for them. Tarboe gave a roar, and called to Joan to take the tiller. He snatched a glass and levelled it.
“A Government tug!” he said, “and tete de Diable! there’s your tall Lafarge among ‘em, Joan! I’d know him by his height miles off.”
Joan lost colour a trifle and then got courage. “Pshaw,” she said, “what does he want?”
“Want? Want? He wants the Ninety-Nine and her cargo; but by the sun of my soul, he’ll get her across the devil’s gridiron! See here, my girl, this ain’t any sport with you aboard. Bissonnette and I could make a stand for it alone, but what’s to become of you? I don’t want you mixed up in the mess.”
The girl was eyeing the Government boat. “But I’m in it, and I can’t be out of it, and I don’t want to be out now that I am in. Let me see the glass.” She took it in one hand. “Yes, it must be M’sieu’ Lafarge,” she said, frowning. “He might have stayed out of this.”
“When he’s got orders, he has to go,” answered her father; “but he must look out, for a gun is a gun, and I don’t pick and choose. Besides, I’ve no contraband this cruise, and I’ll let no one stick me up.”
“There are six or seven of them,” said Joan debatingly.
“Bring her up to the wind,” shouted Tarboe to Bissonnette. The mainsail closed up several points, the Ninety-Nine slackened her pace and edged in closer to the land. “Now, my girl,” said Tarboe, “this is how it stands. If we fight, there’s someone sure to be hurt, and if I’m hurt, where’ll you be?”
Bissonnette interposed. “We’ve got nothing contraband. The gold is ours.”
“Trust that crew—but no!” cried Tarboe, with an oath. “The Government would hold the rhino for possible owners, and then give it to a convent or something. They shan’t put foot here. They’ve said war, and they’ll get it. They’re signalling us to stop, and they’re bearing down. There goes a shot!”
The girl had been watching the Government boat coolly. Now that it began to bear on, she answered her father’s question.
“Captain,” she said, like a trusted mate, “we’ll bluff them.” Her eyes flashed with the intelligence of war. “Here, quick, I’ll take the tiller. They haven’t seen Bissonnette yet; he sits low. Call all hands on deck—shout! Then, see: Loce will go down the middle hatch, get a gun, come up with it on his shoulder, and move on to the fo’castle. Then he’ll drop down the fo’castle hatch, get along to the middle hatch, and come up again with the gun, now with his cap, now without it, now with his coat, now without it. He’ll do that till we’ve got twenty or thirty men on deck! They’ll think we’ve been laying for them, and they’ll not come on—you see!”
Tarboe ripped out an oath. “It’s a great game,” he said, and a moment afterwards, in response to his roars, Bissonnette came up the hatch with his gun showing bravely; then again and again, now with his cap, now without, now with his coat, now with none, anon with a tarpaulin over his shoulders grotesquely. Meanwhile Tarboe trained his one solitary little cannon on the enemy, roaring his men into place.
From the tug it seemed that a large and well-armed crew were ranging behind the bulwarks of the Ninety-Nine. Mr. Martin, the inspector, saw with alarm Bissonnette’s constantly appearing rifle.
“They’ve arranged a plant for us, Mr. Lafarge. What do you think we’d better do?” he asked.
“Fight!” answered Lafarge laconically. He wished to put himself on record, for he was the only one on board who saw through the ruse.
“But I’ve counted at least twenty men, all armed, and we’ve only five.”
“As you please, sir,” said Lafarge bluntly, angry at being tricked, but inwardly glad to be free of the business, for he pictured to himself that girl at the tiller—he had seen her as she went aft—in a police court at Quebec. Yet his instinct for war and his sense of duty impelled him to say: “Still, sir, fight!”
“No, no, Mr. Lafarge,” excitedly rejoined his chief. “I cannot risk it. We must go back for more men and bring along a Gatling. Slow down!” he called. Lafarge turned on his heel with an oath, and stood watching the Ninety-Nine.
“She’ll laugh at me till I die!” he said to himself presently, as the tug turned up stream and pointed for Quebec. “Well, I’m jiggered!” he added, as a cannon shot came ringing over the water after them. He was certain also that he heard loud laughter. No doubt he was right; for as the tug hurried on, Tarboe ran to Joan, hugged her like a bear, and roared till he ached. Then she paid out the sheet, they clapped on all sail, and travelled in the track of the enemy.
Tarboe’s spirit was roused. He was not disposed to let his enemy off on even such terms, so he now turned to Joan and said: “What say you to a chase of the gentleman?”
Joan was in a mood for such a dare-devil adventure. For three people, one of whom was a girl, to give chase to a well-manned, well-armed Government boat was too good a relish to be missed. Then, too, it had just occurred to her that a parley would be amusing, particularly if she and Lafarge were the truce-bearers. So she said: “That is very good.”
“Suppose they should turn and fight?” suggested Bissonnette.
“That’s true—here’s m’am’selle,” agreed Tarboe. “But, see,” said Joan. “If we chase them and call upon them to surrender—and after all, we can prove that we had nothing contraband—what a splendid game it’ll be!” Mischief flicked in her eyes.
“Good!” said Tarboe. “To-morrow I shall be a rich man, and then they’ll not dare to come again.”
So saying, he gave the sail to the wind, and away the Ninety-Nine went after the one ewe lamb of the Government.
Mr. Martin saw her coming, and gave word for all steam. It would be a pretty game, for the wind was in Tarboe’s favour, and the general advantage was not greatly with the tug. Mr. Martin was now anxious indeed to get out of the way of the smuggler. Lafarge made one restraining effort, then settled into an ironical mood. Yet a half-dozen times he was inclined to blurt out to Martin what he believed was the truth. A man, a boy, and a girl to bluff them that way! In his bones he felt that it was the girl who was behind this thing. Of one matter he was sure—they had no contraband stuff on board, or Tarboe would not have brought his daughter along. He could not understand the attitude, for Tarboe would scarcely have risked the thing out of mere bravado. Why not call a truce? Perhaps he could solve the problem. They were keeping a tolerably safe distance apart, and there was no great danger of the Ninety-Nine overhauling them even if it so willed; but Mr. Martin did not know that.
What he said to his chief had its effect, and soon there was a white flag flying on the tug. It was at once answered with a white handkerchief of Joan’s. Then the tug slowed up, the Ninety-Nine came on gaily, and at a good distance came up to the wind, and stood off.
“What do you want?” asked Tarboe through his speaking-tube.
“A parley,” called Mr. Martin.
“Good; send an officer,” answered Tarboe.
A moment after, Lafarge was in a boat rowing over to meet another boat rowed by Joan alone, who, dressed in a suit of Bissonnette’s, had prevailed on her father to let her go.
The two boats nearing each other, Joan stood up, saluting, and Lafarge did the same.
“Good-day, m’sieu’,” said Joan, with assumed brusqueness, mischief lurking about her mouth. “What do you want?”
“Good-day, monsieur; I did not expect to confer with you.”
“M’sieu’,” said Joan, with well-acted dignity, “if you prefer to confer with the captain or Mr. Bissonnette, whom I believe you know in the matter of a pail, and—”
“No, no; pardon me, monsieur,” said Lafarge more eagerly than was good for the play, “I am glad to confer with you, you will understand—you will understand—” He paused.
“What will I understand?”
“You will understand that I understand!” Lafarge waved meaningly towards the Ninety-Nine, but it had no effect at all. Joan would not give the game over into his hands.
“That sounds like a charade or a puzzle game. We are gentlemen on a serious errand, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” answered Lafarge, “perfect gentlemen on a perfectly serious errand!”
“Very well, m’sieu’. Have you come to surrender?” The splendid impudence of the thing stunned Lafarge, but he said: “I suppose one or the other ought to surrender; and naturally,” he added with slow point, “it should be the weaker.”
“Very well. Our captain is willing to consider conditions. You came down on us to take us—a quiet craft sailing in free waters. You attack us without cause. We summon all hands, and you run. We follow, you ask for truce. It is granted. We are not hard—no. We only want our rights. Admit them; we’ll make surrender easy, and the matter is over.”
Lafarge gasped. She was forcing his hand. She would not understand his oblique suggestions. He saw only one way now, and that was to meet her, boast for boast.
“I haven’t come to surrender,” he said, “but to demand.”
“M’sieu’,” Joan said grandly, “there’s nothing more to say. Carry word to your captain that we’ll overhaul him by sundown, and sink him before supper.”
Lafarge burst out laughing.
“Well, by the Lord, but you’re a swashbuckler, Joan—”
“M’sieu’—”
“Oh, nonsense! I tell you, nonsense! Let’s have over with this, my girl. You’re the cleverest woman on the continent, but there’s a limit to everything. Here, tell me now, and if you answer me straight I’ll say no more.”
“M’sieu’, I am here to consider conditions, not to—” “Oh, for God’s sake, Joan! Tell me now, have you got anything contraband on board? There’ll be a nasty mess about the thing, for me and all of us, and why can’t we compromise? I tell you honestly we’d have come on, if I hadn’t seen you aboard.”
Joan turned her head back with a laugh. “My poor m’sieu’! You have such bad luck. Contraband? Let me see? Liquors and wines and tobacco are contraband. Is it not so?” Lafarge nodded.
“Is money—gold—contraband?”
“Money? No; of course not, and you know it. Why won’t you be sensible? You’re getting me into a bad hole, and—”
“I want to see how you’ll come out. If you come out well—” She paused quaintly.
“Yes, if I come out well—”
“If you come out very well, and we do not sink you before supper, I may ask you to come and see me.”
“H’m! Is that all? After spoiling my reputation, I’m to be let come and see you.”
“Isn’t that enough to start with? What has spoiled your reputation?”
“A man, a boy, and a slip of a girl.” He looked meaningly enough at her now. She laughed. “See,” he added; “give me a chance. Let me search the Ninety-Nine for contraband,—that’s all I’ve got to do with,—and then I can keep quiet about the rest. If there’s no contraband, whatever else there is, I’ll hold my tongue.”
“I’ve told you what there is.”
He did not understand. “Will you let me search?” Joan’s eyes flashed. “Once and for all, no, Orvay Lafarge. I am the daughter of a man whom you and your men would have killed or put in the dock. He’s been a smuggler, and I know it. Who has he robbed? Not the poor, not the needy; but a rich Government that robs also. Well, in the hour when he ceases to be a smuggler for ever, armed men come to take him. Why didn’t they do so before? Why so pious all at once? No; I am first the daughter of my father, and afterwards—”
“And afterwards?”
“What to-morrow may bring forth.”
Lafarge became very serious. “I must go back. Mr. Martin is signalling, and your father is calling. I do not understand, but you’re the one woman in the world for my money, and I’m ready to stand by that and leave the customs to-morrow if need be.”
Joan’s eyes blazed, her cheek was afire. “Leave it to-day. Leave it now. Yes; that’s my one condition. If you want me, and you say you do, come aboard the Ninety-Nine, and for to-day be one of us-to-morrow what you will.”
“What I will? What I will, Joan? Do you mean it?”
“Yes. Pshaw! Your duty? Don’t I know how the Ministers and the officers have done their duty at Quebec? It’s all nonsense. You must make your choice once for all now.”
Lafarge stood a moment thinking. “Joan, I’ll do it. I’d go hunting in hell at your bidding. But see. Everything’s changed. I couldn’t fight against you, but I can fight for you. All must be open now. You’ve said there’s no contraband. Well, I’ll tell Mr. Martin so, but I’ll tell him also that you’ve only a crew of two—”
“Of three, now!”
“Of three! I will do my duty in that, then resign and come over to you, if I can.”
“If you can? You mean that they may fire on you?”
“I can’t tell what they may do. But I must deal fair.”
Joan’s face was grave. “Very well, I will wait for you here.”
“They might hit you.”
“But no. They can’t hit a wall. Go on, my dear.” They saluted, and, as Lafarge turned away, Joan said, with a little mocking laugh, “Tell him that he must surrender, or we’ll sink him before supper.”
Lafarge nodded, and drew away quickly towards the tug. His interview with Mr. Martin was brief, and he had tendered his resignation, though it was disgracefully informal, and was over the side of the boat again and rowing quickly away before his chief recovered his breath. Then Mr. Martin got a large courage. He called on his men to fire when Lafarge was about two hundred and fifty feet from the tug. The shots rattled about him. He turned round coolly and called out, “Coward-we’ll sink you before supper!”
A minute afterwards there came another shot, and an oar dropped from his hand. But now Joan was rowing rapidly towards him, and presently was alongside.
“Quick, jump inhere,” she said. He did so, and she rowed on quickly. Tarboe did not understand, but now his blood was up, and as another volley sent bullets dropping around the two he gave the Ninety-Nine to the wind, and she came bearing down smartly to them. In a few moments they were safely on board, and Joan explained. Tarboe grasped Lafarge’s unmaimed hand,—the other Joan was caring for,—and swore that fighting was the only thing left now.
Mr. Martin had said the same, but when he saw the Ninety-Nine determined, menacing, and coming on, he became again uncertain, and presently gave orders to make for the lighthouse on the opposite side of the river. He could get over first, for the Ninety-Nine would not have the wind so much in her favour, and there entrench himself; for even yet Bissonnette amply multiplied was in his mind—Lafarge had not explained that away. He was in the neighbourhood of some sunken rocks of which he and his man at the wheel did not know accurately, and in making what he thought was a clear channel he took a rock with great force, for they were going full steam ahead. Then came confusion, and in getting out the one boat it was swamped and a man nearly drowned. Meanwhile the tug was fast sinking.
While they were throwing off their clothes, the Ninety-Nine came down, and stood off. On one hand was the enemy, on the other the water, with the shore half a mile distant.
“Do you surrender?” called out Tarboe.
“Can’t we come aboard without that?” feebly urged Mr. Martin.
“I’ll see you damned first, Mr. Martin. Come quick, or I’ll give you what for.”
“We surrender,” answered the officer gently.
A few minutes later he and his men were on board, with their rifles stacked in a corner at Bissonnette’s hand.
Then Tarboe brought the Ninety-Nine close to the wreck, and with his little cannon put a ball into her. This was the finish. She shook her nose, shivered, shot down like a duck, and was gone.
Mr. Martin was sad even to tears.
“Now, my beauties,” said Tarboe, “now that I’ve got you safe, I’ll show you the kind of cargo I’ve got.” A moment afterwards he hoisted a keg on deck. “Think that’s whisky?” he asked. “Lift it, Mr. Martin.” Mr. Martin obeyed. “Shake it,” he added.
Mr. Martin did so. “Open it, Mr. Martin.” He held out a hatchet-hammer. The next moment a mass of gold pieces yellowed to their eyes. Mr. Martin fell back, breathing hard.
“Is that contraband, Mr. Martin?”
“Treasure-trove,” humbly answered the stricken officer.
“That’s it, and in a month, Mr. Martin, I’ll be asking the chief of your department to dinner.”
Meanwhile Lafarge saw how near he had been to losing a wife and a fortune. Arrived off Isle of Day; Tarboe told Mr. Martin and his men that if they said “treasure-trove” till they left the island their live would not be worth “a tinker’s damn.” When they had sworn, he took them to Angel Point, fed then royally, gave them excellent liquor to drink, and sent them in a fishing-smack with Bissonnette to Quebec where, arriving, they told strange tales.
Bissonnette bore a letter to a certain banker in Quebec, who already had done business with Tarboe, and next midnight Tarboe himself, with Gobal, Lafarge, Bissonnette, and another, came knocking at the banker’s door, each carrying a keg on his shoulder and armed to the teeth. And, what was singular two stalwart police-officers walked behind with comfortable and approving looks.
A month afterwards Lafarge and Joan were married in the parish church at Isle of Days, and it was said that Mr. Martin, who, for some strange reason, was allowed to retain his position in the customs, sent a present. The wedding ended with a sensation, for just as the benediction was pronounced a loud report was heard beneath the floor of the church. There was great commotion, but Tarboe whispered in the curb’s ear, and he blushing, announced that it was the bursting of a barrel. A few minutes afterwards the people of the parish knew the old hiding-place of Tarboe’s contraband, and, though the cure rebuked them, they roared with laughter at the knowledge.
“So droll, so droll, our Tarboe there!” they shouted, for already they began to look upon him as their Seigneur.
In time the cure forgave him also.
Tarboe seldom left Isle of Days, save when he went to visit his daughter, in St. Louis Street, Quebec, not far from the Parliament House, where Orvay Lafarge is a member of the Ministry. The ex-smuggler was a member of the Assembly for three months, but after defeating his own party on a question of tariff, he gave a portrait of himself to the Chamber, and threw his seat into the hands of his son-in-law. At the Belle Chatelaine, where he often goes, he sometimes asks Bissonnette to play “The Demoiselle with the Scarlet Hose.”
When old Throng the trader, trembling with sickness and misery, got on his knees to Captain Halby and groaned, “She didn’t want to go; they dragged her off; you’ll fetch her back, won’t ye?—she always had a fancy for you, cap’n,” Pierre shrugged a shoulder and said:
“But you stole her when she was in her rock-a-by, my Throng—you and your Manette.”
“Like a match she was—no bigger,” continued the old man. “Lord, how that stepmother bully-ragged her, and her father didn’t care a darn. He’d half a dozen others—Manette and me hadn’t none. We took her and used her like as if she was an angel, and we brought her off up here. Haven’t we set store by her? Wasn’t it ‘cause we was lonely an’ loved her we took her? Hasn’t everybody stood up and said there wasn’t anyone like her in the North? Ain’t I done fair by her always—ain’t I? An’ now, when this cough ‘s eatin’ my life out, and Manette ‘s gone, and there ain’t a soul but Duc the trapper to put a blister on to me, them brutes ride up from over the border, call theirselves her brothers, an’ drag her off!”
He was still on his knees. Pierre reached over and lightly kicked a moccasined foot.
“Get up, Jim Throng,” he said. “Holy! do you think the law moves because an old man cries? Is it in the statutes?—that’s what the law says. Does it come within the act? Is it a trespass—an assault and battery?—a breach of the peace?—a misdemeanour? Victoria—So and So: that’s how the law talks. Get on your knees to Father Corraine, not to Captain Halby, Jimmy Throng.”
Pierre spoke in a half-sinister, ironical way, for between him and Captain Halby’s Riders of the Plains there was no good feeling. More than once he had come into conflict with them, more than once had they laid their hands on him—and taken them off again in due time. He had foiled them as to men they wanted; he had defied them—but he had helped them too, when it seemed right to him; he had sided with them once or twice when to do so was perilous to himself. He had sneered at them, he did not like them, nor they him. The sum of it was, he thought them brave—and stupid; and he knew that the law erred as often as it set things right.
The Trader got up and stood between the two men, coughing much, his face straining, his eyes bloodshot, as he looked anxiously from Pierre to Halby. He was the sad wreck of a strong man. Nothing looked strong about him now save his head, which, with its long grey hair, seemed badly balanced by the thin neck, through which the terrible cough was hacking.
“Only half a lung left,” he stammered, as soon as he could speak, “an’ Duc can’t fix the boneset, camomile, and whisky, as she could. An’ he waters the whisky—curse-his-soul!” The last three words were spoken through another spasm of coughing. “An’ the blister—how he mucks the blister!”
Pierre sat back on the table, laughing noiselessly, his white teeth shining. Halby, with one foot on a bench, was picking at the fur on his sleeve thoughtfully. His face was a little drawn, his lips were tight-pressed, and his eyes had a light of excitement. Presently he straightened himself, and, after a half-malicious look at Pierre, he said to Throng:
“Where are they, do you say?”
“They’re at”—the old man coughed hard—“at Fort O’Battle.”
“What are they doing there?”
“Waitin’ till spring, when they’ll fetch their cattle up an’ settle there.”
“They want—Lydia—to keep house for them?” The old man writhed.
“Yes, God’s sake, that’s it! An’ they want Liddy to marry a devil called Borotte, with a thousand cattle or so—Pito the courier told me yesterday. Pito saw her, an’ he said she was white like a sheet, an’ called out to him as he went by. Only half a lung I got, an’ her boneset and camomile ‘d save it for a bit, mebbe—mebbe!”
“It’s clear,” said Halby, “that they trespassed, and they haven’t proved their right to her.”
“Tonnerre, what a thinker!” said Pierre, mocking. Halby did not notice. His was a solid sense of responsibility.
“She is of age?” he half asked, half mused.
“She’s twenty-one,” answered the old man, with difficulty.
“Old enough to set the world right,” suggested Pierre, still mocking.
“She was forced away, she regarded you as her natural protector, she believed you her father: they broke the law,” said the soldier.
“There was Moses, and Solomon, and Caesar, and Socrates, and now...!” murmured Pierre in assumed abstraction.
A red spot burned on Halby’s high cheekbone for a minute, but he persistently kept his temper.
“I’m expected elsewhere,” he said at last. “I’m only one man, yet I wish I could go to-day—even alone. But—”
“But you have a heart,” said Pierre. “How wonderful—a heart! And there’s the half a lung, and the boneset and camomile tea, and the blister, and the girl with an eye like a spot of rainbow, and the sacred law in a Remington rifle! Well, well! And to do it in the early morning—to wait in the shelter of the trees till some go to look after the horses, then enter the house, arrest those inside, and lay low for the rest.”
Halby looked over at Pierre astonished. Here was raillery and good advice all in a piece.
“It isn’t wise to go alone, for if there’s trouble and I should go down, who’s to tell the truth? Two could do it; but one—no, it isn’t wise, though it would look smart enough.”
“Who said to go alone?” asked Pierre, scrawling on the table with a burnt match.
“I have no men.”
Pierre looked up at the wall.
“Throng has a good Snider there,” he said. “Bosh! Throng can’t go.”
The old man coughed and strained.
“If it wasn’t—only-half a lung, and I could carry the boneset ‘long with us.”
Pierre slid off the table, came to the old man, and, taking him by the arms, pushed him gently into a chair. “Sit down; don’t be a fool, Throng,” he said. Then he turned to Halby: “You’re a magistrate—make me a special constable; I’ll go, monsieur le capitaine—of no company.”
Halby stared. He knew Pierre’s bravery, his ingenuity and daring. But this was the last thing he expected: that the malicious, railing little half-breed would work with him and the law. Pierre seemed to understand his thoughts, for he said: “It is not for you. I am sick for adventure, and then there is mademoiselle—such a finger she has for a ven’son pudding.”
Without a word Halby wrote on a leaf in his notebook, and presently handed the slip to Pierre. “That’s your commission as a special constable,” he said, “and here’s the seal on it.” He handed over a pistol.
Pierre raised his eyebrows at it, but Halby continued: “It has the Government mark. But you’d better bring Throng’s rifle too.”
Throng sat staring at the two men, his hands nervously shifting on his knees. “Tell Liddy,” he said, “that the last batch of bread was sour—Duc ain’t no good-an’ that I ain’t had no relish sence she left. Tell her the cough gits lower down all the time. ‘Member when she tended that felon o’ yourn, Pierre?”
Pierre looked at a sear on his finger and nodded. “She cut it too young; but she had the nerve! When do you start, captain? It’s an eighty-mile ride.”
“At once,” was the reply. “We can sleep to-night in the Jim-a-long-Jo” (a hut which the Company had built between two distant posts), “and get there at dawn day after to-morrow. The snow is light and we can travel quick. I have a good horse, and you—”
“I have my black Tophet. He’ll travel with your roan as on one snaffle-bar. That roan—you know where he come from?”
“From the Dolright stud, over the Border.”
“That’s wrong. He come from Greystop’s paddock, where my Tophet was foaled; they are brothers. Yours was stole and sold to the Gover’ment; mine was bought by good hard money. The law the keeper of stolen goods, eh? But these two will go cinch to cinch all the way, like two brothers—like you and me.”
He could not help the touch of irony in his last words: he saw the amusing side of things, and all humour in him had a strain of the sardonic.
“Brothers-in-law for a day or two,” answered Halby drily.
Within two hours they were ready to start. Pierre had charged Duc the incompetent upon matters for the old man’s comfort, and had himself, with a curious sort of kindness, steeped the boneset and camomile in whisky, and set a cup of it near his chair. Then he had gone up to Throng’s bedroom and straightened out and shook and “made” the corn-husk bed, which had gathered into lumps and rolls. Before he came down he opened a door near by and entered another room, shutting the door, and sitting down on a chair. A stovepipe ran through the room, and it was warm, though the window was frosted and the world seemed shut out. He looked round slowly, keenly interested. There was a dressing-table made of an old box; it was covered with pink calico, with muslin over this. A cheap looking-glass on it was draped with muslin and tied at the top with a bit of pink ribbon. A common bone comb lay near the glass, and beside it a beautiful brush with an ivory back and handle. This was the only expensive thing in the room. He wondered, but did not go near it yet. There was a little eight-day clock on a bracket which had been made by hand—pasteboard darkened with umber and varnished; a tiny little set of shelves made of the wood of cigar-boxes; and—alas, the shifts of poverty to be gay!—an easy-chair made of the staves of a barrel and covered with poor chintz. Then there was a photograph or two, in little frames made from the red cedar of cigar-boxes, with decorations of putty, varnished, and a long panel screen of birch-bark of Indian workmanship. Some dresses hung behind the door. The bedstead was small, the frame was of hickory, with no footboard, ropes making the support for the husk tick. Across the foot lay a bedgown and a pair of stockings.
Pierre looked long, at first curiously; but after a little his forehead gathered and his lips drew in a little, as if he had a twinge of pain. He got up, went over near the bed, and picked up a hairpin. Then he came back to the chair and sat down, turning it about in his fingers, still looking abstractedly at the floor.
“Poor Lucy!” he said presently; “the poor child! Ah, what a devil I was then—so long ago!”
This solitary room—Lydia’s—had brought back the time he went to the room of his own wife, dead by her own hand after an attempt to readjust the broken pieces of life, and sat and looked at the place which had been hers, remembering how he had left her with her wet face turned to the wall, and never saw her again till she was set free for ever. Since that time he had never sat in a room sacred to a woman alone.
“What a fool, what a fool, to think!” he said at last, standing up; “but this girl must be saved. She must have her home here again.”
Unconsciously he put the hairpin in his pocket, walked over to the dressing-table and picked up the hair-brush. On its back was the legend, “L. T. from C. H.” He gave a whistle.
“So-so?” he said, “‘C. H.’ M’sieu’ le capitaine, is it like that?”
A year before, Lydia had given Captain Halby a dollar to buy her a hair-brush at Winnipeg, and he had brought her one worth ten dollars. She had beautiful hair, and what pride she had in using this brush! Every Sunday morning she spent a long time in washing, curling, and brushing her hair, and every night she tended it lovingly, so that it was a splendid rich brown like her eye, coiling nobly above her plain, strong face with its good colour.
Pierre, glancing in the glass, saw Captain Halby’s face looking over his shoulder. It startled him, and he turned round. There was the face looking out from a photograph that hung on the wall in the recess where the bed was. He noted now that the likeness hung where the girl could see it the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning.
“So far as that, eh!” he said. “And m’sieu’ is a gentleman, too. We shall see what he will do: he has his chance now, once for all.”
He turned, came to the door, softly opened it, passed out, and shut it, then descended the stairs, and in half an hour was at the door with Captain Halby, ready to start. It was an exquisite winter day, even in its bitter coldness. The sun was shining clear and strong, all the plains glistened and shook like quicksilver, and the vast blue cup of sky seemed deeper than it had ever been. But the frost ate the skin like an acid, and when Throng came to the door Pierre drove him back instantly from the air.
“I only-wanted—to say—to Liddy,” hacked the old man, “that I’m thinkin’—a little m’lasses ‘d kinder help—the boneset an’ camomile. Tell her that the cattle ‘ll all be hers—an’—the house, an’ I ain’t got no one but—”
But Pierre pushed him back and shut the door, saying: “I’ll tell her what a fool you are, Jimmy Throng.” The old man, as he sat down awkwardly in his chair, with Duc stolidly lighting his pipe and watching him, said to himself: “Yes, I be a durn fool; I be, I be!” over and over again. And when the dog got up from near the stove and came near to him, he added: “I be, Touser; I be a durn fool, for I ought to ha’ stole two or three, an’ then I’d not be alone, an’ nothin’ but sour bread an’ pork to eat. I ought to ha’ stole three.”
“Ah, Manette ought to have given you some of your own, it’s true, that!” said Duc stolidly. “You never was a real father, Jim.”
“Liddy got to look like me; she got to look like Manette and me, I tell ye!” said the old man hoarsely. Duc laughed in his stupid way. “Look like you? Look like you, Jim, with a face to turn milk sour? Ho, ho!”
Throng rose, his face purple with anger, and made as if to catch Duc by the throat, but a fit of coughing seized him, and presently blood showed on his lips. Duc, with a rough gentleness, wiped off the blood and put the whisky-and-herbs to the sick man’s lips, saying, in a fatherly way:
“For why you do like that? You’re a fool, Jimmy!”
“I be, I be,” said the old man in a whisper, and let his hand rest on Duc’s shoulder.
“I’ll fix the bread sweet next time, Jimmy.”
“No, no,” said the husky voice peevishly. “She’ll do it—Liddy’ll do it. Liddy’s comin’.”
“All right, Jimmy. All right.”
After a moment Throng shook his head feebly and said, scarcely above a whisper:
“But I be a durn fool—when she’s not here.”
Duc nodded and gave him more whisky and herbs. “My feet’s cold,” said the old man, and Duc wrapped a bearskin round his legs.
II
For miles Pierre and Halby rode without a word. Then they got down and walked for a couple of miles, to bring the blood into their legs again.
“The old man goes to By-by bientot,” said Pierre at last.
“You don’t think he’ll last long?”
“Maybe ten days; maybe one. If we don’t get the girl, out goes his torchlight straight.”
“She’s been very good to him.”
“He’s been on his knees to her all her life.”
“There’ll be trouble out of this, though.”
“Pshaw! The girl is her own master.”
“I mean, someone will probably get hurt over there.” He nodded in the direction of Fort O’Battle.
“That’s in the game. The girl is worth fighting for, hein?”
“Of course, and the law must protect her. It’s a free country.”
“So true, my captain,” murmured Pierre drily. “It is wonderful what a man will do for the law.”
The tone struck Halby. Pierre was scanning the horizon abstractedly.
“You are always hitting at the law,” he said. “Why do you stand by it now?”
“For the same reason as yourself.”
“What is that?”
“She has your picture in her room, she has my lucky dollar in her pocket.”
Halby’s face flushed, and then he turned and looked steadily into Pierre’s eyes.
“We’d better settle this thing at once. If you’re going to Fort O’Battle because you’ve set your fancy there, you’d better go back now. That’s straight. You and I can’t sail in the same boat. I’ll go alone, so give me the pistol.”
Pierre laughed softly, and waved the hand back. “T’sh! What a high-cock-a-lorum! You want to do it all yourself—to fill the eye of the girl alone, and be tucked away to By-by for your pains—mais, quelle folie! See: you go for law and love; I go for fun and Jimmy Throng. The girl? Pshaw! she would come out right in the end, without you or me. But the old man with half a lung—that’s different. He must have sweet bread in his belly when he dies, and the girl must make it for him. She shall brush her hair with the ivory brush by Sunday morning.”
Halby turned sharply.
“You’ve been spying,” he said. “You’ve been in her room—you—”
Pierre put out his hand and stopped the word on Halby’s lips.
“Slow, slow,” he said; “we are both—police to-day. Voila! we must not fight. There is Throng and the girl to think of.” Suddenly, with a soft fierceness, he added: “If I looked in her room, what of that? In all the North is there a woman to say I wrong her? No. Well, what if I carry her room in my eye; does that hurt her or you?”
Perhaps something of the loneliness of the outlaw crept into Pierre’s voice for an instant, for Halby suddenly put a hand on his shoulder and said: “Let’s drop the thing, Pierre.”
Pierre looked at him musingly.
“When Throng is put to By-by what will you do?” he asked.
“I will marry her, if she’ll have me.”
“But she is prairie-born, and you!”
“I’m a prairie-rider.”
After a moment Pierre said, as if to himself: “So quiet and clean, and the print calico and muslin, and the ivory brush!”
It is hard to say whether he was merely working on Halby that he be true to the girl, or was himself softhearted for the moment. He had a curious store of legend and chanson, and he had the Frenchman’s power of applying them, though he did it seldom. But now he said in a half monotone: