'It's too bad, boys,' said Captain Robinson. 'Here were you having a smooth time, while I was putting in hard work.'
'Never mind. Captain,' said Dave, 'we're right in it now. Where's the liquor, Alf?'
The Factor, with true hospitality, was helping himself first. Then the bottle went round, the air became charged with smoke, conversation grew discursive.
'Quite a long time since I saw you last, Alf. Dave I'm meeting down in Selkirk pretty often. I reckon it's three years since we ran up.'
'It's all that since I was down. Garry's changed more than a little in the time. You're the same, Captain. I reckon you've chewed your weight in baccy since then.'
'I guess. How about yourself? How's the shooting, eh? Crack shot yet, Alf?'
The Factor growled out a low laugh, and beat his great fist upon the insecure table. 'Not a darned bit of it, Captain; it's no go. Tell you, I'll never be able to shoot. Getting worse all the time. Listen here to what happened a few days before I came away this trip. I was out early to chop logs, and first thing I saw was a fat old tree-partridge, settled on that big pine 'way outside the door. So I said to Justin, "Fetch over your gun, boy, while I show you the way to knock down partridges." I thought to myself, this is a slick shot right enough. I'll have this old chap for breakfast. Well, I guess that bird knew something about me, or maybe its pards had put it up to a thing or two, for he kind of jerked his head a one side and looked at me, much as to say, "What derned trick are you up to, anyway? Think you're going to fix me, eh?" So Justin chucked me over the gun all ready, while the old fowl sat tight as a rock. Then I took a good, steady aim and fired. Suppose I must have brought down about a bushel of cones and truck. But when the smoke cleared off, there was that partridge sidling along the bough towards me, pleased as anything with himself, looking at me straight, with as near a grin across his beak as any bird's ever managed yet. "I'll shoot you by proxy, anyway," I shouted, and gave the gun over to Justin. But before he could get a fair hold of it, that partridge was off. You needn't tell me birds can't think out things for themselves. Tree-partridges can, if other birds can't. That old fool knew well enough I couldn't hit him, but he was pretty darned sure Justin could. He reckoned it would be too risky to wait and see if he was right second time.'
Dave reached across and turned up the lamp flame with deep-throated chuckles. The Captain knocked an inch of ash from his cigar without perceptibly shortening it. McAuliffe suddenly blew the stub of his out upon the floor, in a shout of laughter.
'Goldam! can't get rid of old Peter's face time it stopped that egg. Here! pass over that box of sharpshooters, Dave.'
It was now dark and silent outside. About the only sound round the window was the dull, vibrating hum of mosquitoes. Presently the Factor began to narrate his experiences during the previous year.
But when he came to relate a certain incident, which had occurred on that autumn night of the boat's departure, the jocular lines were stamped from the two faces, as their owners listened intently to the narrative. Then the Captain spoke. 'You were full, Alf.'
'I was sober. Goldam! I was ridiculously sober.'
'Mind, there was Kitty as well,' put in Dave.
'That fixes it, if my words don't. I saw him plainly, just as I can see you boys now. You can't guess how terrible scared I was the next few days. I couldn't dare leave the fort after dark I made Justin hide away the whisky keg. You can call me a razzle-witted old fool, but I hadn't even the courage to walk over young Winton's grave in broad sunlight.'
There was a short interval of silence, then the Captain expanded his nostrils. 'Reckon there's something burning in here.'
McAuliffe sniffed capaciously. 'You're right, Captain. Darn it, there's my cigar stub working out a nice hole in that matting. I'm the sort of fellow to be in a civilised place, ain't I?'
He went on his knees to examine the amount of injury done. 'Pass down some water, Dave; there's a hole right here I could shove my head through, and it's burning all the time.' When he had deluged the flooring to his satisfaction, he continued, 'Now we'll just shift the table, so that one of the legs will nicely go over the bald spot. Then it won't get stuck down to my account. I reckon hotel servants never move anything.'
Hardly had he spoken, when a deep, wailing sound throbbed forth and echoed weirdly round the room.
The three started, then Dave shambled across and leaned as far from the window as the insect frame would permit. Presently it came again—a resonant iron cry, which solemnly thrilled the heart in the quiet night.
McAuliffe was still squatting on his haunches near the burnt matting. 'I know what it is!' he said suddenly; 'Father Lecompte's dead.'
For it was the single bell of the dim church opposite.
'Sure of that, Alf?' said the Captain, in awe-struck tones.
'Dead certain. He's been terrible sick. Old Taché never left him all last night. They said this morning he couldn't pull through to-day. 'Well, it's nice to be a good man, though they've got to go, same as us bad 'uns.'
The muffled cry rang again. Then McAuliffe dragged himself back to the chair. 'We've got to die, sure enough. They needn't get to work and remind us of it, though, just as we're feeling good. Fill up, Captain.'
'Shut down the window,' cried Dave. 'Enough to give a fellow the megrims, listening to that racket.'
'Too hot, Dave,' said the Factor. 'Here, we'll have a round of poker. Wait till I get out the cards.'
Plang!
'Goldam! queer that a dirty bit of metal should put three men in the suds. Cheer up, Captain; you're a chicken yet.'
He threw the cards across the table, then brandished a bottle round his head.
'When round the bar,A short life and a merry 'unIs better far,Than a long life and a dreary 'un.'
The other two took up the last line and howled it forth with the lusty strength of unimpaired lungs.
'That's your style, Alf!' shouted Dave. 'Fill up the glasses, pard, and to hell with the blue devils.'
Plang!
Three glasses were raised, emptied in a quick gulp, then replenished. There were hurrying footsteps through the night beneath, while a stranger, more solemn sound uprose from the church, where the windows were filled with yellow light. A solemn mass was being sung for the repose of the soul of the dead priest.
'Hold it down, Dave!' cried the Captain. 'Five cent ante, boys.'
The amber-coloured liquor gurgled pleasantly from the bottle neck and splashed into the Factor's glass. His eyes shone as he gathered up the five cards. 'We'll have our little jamboree well as them over the way, I reckon.'
'Quit it, Alf,' said the Captain; 'I'm religious, mind. No blasphemy here.'
McAuliffe laughed thickly into his glass. 'You're all right, Captain. Mind how you won twenty dollars off me one Sunday, just before starting for church? Reckon your religion wouldn't drag you from this bottle over to yon service, eh?'
Plang!
'I'll raise you, Dave. That's nothing to do with it, Alf; I'm religious when—when—'
'You're sick, eh?'
'There's a time for everything,' said the Captain, with the solemnity that was liquor induced. 'I'm religious at the proper time, mind you, just at the proper time. Other times I'm gay.'
'This is the gay time. Captain. You're a great lad! It's your pot. Ante up, Dave.'
'Reckon it's time the bottle passed this side,' said the latter.
'Got to go by me first, Davey. Never mind, lad; I'll leave you the cork to chew. That's right, Captain; hold your hand round it.'
Plang-ang!
'Bellringer's tight. Now then, Dave. Half for you, half for me. I'll have the big half, and you take the little 'un. What's that, Captain? I reckon I just will raise you.'
'Pass,' said Dave, clutching the bottle frantically.
'See you,' said the Captain, jerking his head forward over the table.
'Full house,' cried the Factor.
'Like us,' added the Captain. 'Good, Alf. Three kings.'
Plang-ang.
'What's that?' cried Dave, quickly.
'Why, the pesky bell, you old rocket. You're everlastingly raddled, Dave.'
'I'm not. There's somebody monkeying around outside.'
'Boil your head,' muttered the Captain. 'It don't matter, anyway; all bad folks are asleep by this time.'
'I'm darned sure there was someone. Heard footsteps, then a sound like striking a match to look for a number. Some of your pards after you, I reckon. Alf.'
'Let 'em come. Lots of liquor for 'em. Fetch up that full bottle from the corner,' shouted the Factor.
'Ante up first, Dave. You're the worst I ever saw for trying to sneak in your nickles.'
Strong knuckles fell determinedly upon the door panel to prove the truth of Dave's words.
'It's your pals, Alf,' said the Captain, with a chuckle. 'Bring 'em in, and we'll make an everlasting night of it.'
'Bet you; it'll be the boys. They're after giving me a surprise party. Lucky I'm not in bed, or they'd have dragged me out first thing.'
The heavy knocking came again, this time lasting longer.
'Come on, you old razzle-pates!' shouted McAuliffe. 'What are you standing outside making that darned row for.'
'Come in and have a drink!' yelled the Captain, equally excited. Dave's harsh voice also extended the invitation.
'Gimme that bottle, Dave. You're too derned full to get the cork out.'
Then the door opened slowly, but no more than two figures entered, and one of these was a woman.
The three turned upon them with hearty cries of salutation; but the next instant they were all upon the dirty matting, tied up in a knot of legs and arms, clawing at one another, rolling over and over, with strange, animal-like cries of fear.
Plang-ang!
'Old Billy!'
'Billy Sinclair!'
'Lord! Lord! I've got 'em this time!'
The old hunter stood by the table, with a slow smile breaking upon his thin face as he looked upon the grovelling, snake-like figures at his feet. Then he sniffed at the atmosphere, and began to comprehend.
'Sit here,' he said to the girl, whose head was covered in a flowing blanket, pushing a chair into the corner. 'I'll have to sort some order out of this crowd.'
Then he pulled at a leg which wriggled from beneath the table. It belonged to McAuliffe, and its owner bellowed fearfully at the clutch.
'It's got me, Captain. Hold on to my arm, Davey. It's going to drag me off.'
'Come out, Alf. Don't you know an old pard?'
It was ineffectual. The Factor only raved and struggled the more. So Sinclair turned his attention to the others, who proved more amenable.
'It is you, Billy?' said the awe-stricken Captain. 'There's no foolery? You're not a pesky spirit come to scare us for our sins?'
'Get up and put your arms round me,' said the hunter, a trifle testily. 'I never had much flesh to carry; what I've got now is solid, though, I reckon.'
Then Dave peered up, a queer object with stains of liquor and sodden tobacco down his cheeks. 'We reckoned you were fixed, Billy. 'Way up the Saskatchewan by thenitchies.'
'Well, I wasn't. Pull Alf up, and I'll give you the yarn.'
Captain Robinson shook the prostrate figure. 'Git up, Alf. It's the square thing. Old Billy's here, skin and all.'
'I didn't drink much. Captain—only a few glasses. There was a lot of water in that last lot. You saw me mix it. Captain.'
'Didn't take you for a coward, Alf,' said Sinclair. 'I'm here, good as ever, with Menotah as well.'
'Where?' blurted forth Dave. 'My gal! Darned if there isn't my gal!'
He would have shambled off towards her, but the hunter stopped him. 'Let her alone, poor girl. She's had more than enough trouble.'
'She's next thing to being my wife, though. Guess she's wanting me.'
'You bet,' said Sinclair, smiling ironically.
'It's hard on a fellow not being able to speak to his gal.'
'Well, have a drink; that's pretty near as good,' said the Captain. 'Come on, Billy. Lord! it makes me feel queer down to the knee bones, to see you standing upright there.'
The hunter laughed. This well-remembered sound almost entirely removed McAuliffe's fear. Slowly and cautiously he dragged his head from the matting, then gazed fearfully upward. 'That was Billy's laugh,' he muttered. 'I don't reckon any ghost could raise such a racket.'
'Yes, Alf; you're scared of me, eh?'
'No, I'll be darned.' He clambered ungracefully to a sitting posture. 'I never was afraid of old Billy not when he was alive; so it sha'n't be said I'm scared of his ghost.'
'Well, shake, then,' said the hunter.
McAuliffe was still distrustful. 'Let's see you put down a dram first,' he said. 'If you can still drink whisky, you're Billy. If you can't, you're his ghost.'
'I was just waiting to be asked,' said the hunter, filling himself a glass. 'Here's to you, Alf.'
The latter was up in a second, grabbing at his hand. 'Sit light there, Billy,' he cried, forcing him into a chair. 'Tell us the yarn from start to finish. Darn it, I'm glad it wasn't the whisky. This is the second time you've scared me, Billy. I tell you, boys, straight, I thought I'd got 'em a terror. As there's no danger of the jumps, I reckon we'd better drink Billy's health, eh?'
A fresh bottle of spirit was cracked, and the glasses charged. 'I'm real glad to drink to you again, Billy,' continued the Factor, sniffing appreciatively the ascending aroma. 'Though, I tell you, you've shortened our lives by suddenly returning to yours. You haven't dealt square, Billy. Why didn't you turn up before? See here, now; there's got to be no more larking off to the grave, and rising again to drive your pards to total abstinence. Yes, Billy, if you'd been a ghost to-night, I should have turned temperance orator. I tell you straight I should.'
'But the yarn, Billy,' cried Dave. 'Didn't thenitchiestry to fix you?'
'No,' replied the hunter. 'Somebody did their best to shoot me, but it wasn't anitchi.'
'Who?' they all asked with a single voice.
'Lamont.'
A faint sound—it might have been a groan—came from the dark corner. The Factor tilted his glass in his amazement, until the liquor splashed upon the scattered cards. The Captain was shouting, 'Who's he?'
The hunter's spare face appeared almost frightened. 'The White Chief,' he said slowly.
McAuliffe growled like a bear, and dropped the glass outright; the Captain sat upright, with the ash end of the cigar in his mouth; Dave gave a deep cry.
'I mind it now,' the latter shouted. 'Was dead sure I'd seen his face, but couldn't fix it nohow. Now I mind it. 'Twas one night I came upon him sudden at the Lower Fort, without his paint.'
McAuliffe collapsed into a chair. 'Goldam!' he exclaimed weakly, 'to think I should have lived with him. You're wrong though, Billy. He fought for us that night. If it hadn't been for him, we'd all have been fixed—'
'Lamont goes on the strong side. He knew it was all over with the Riel racket. If he'd been taken up there, it was all up with him. He knew that.'
To remove the veil of mystery which so far has environed the 'White Chief':—
Riel was not, never had been, the prime factor of the revolution. Himself a dull man of irregular habits, yet one whose mind might easily be moulded; in unscrupulous hands, he was powerless to act as sole leader; he could not forecast future chances without assistance. Left to himself, he would never have struck the blow for right and liberty. But, when sitting outside his shanty one summer evening, a young man came to him. His sudden arrival was in itself mysterious, and from the first he cast a powerful glamour over the great half-breed. The darkness came up, night gathered round, and still Riel talked with the young Canadian, who was, on his own confession, the finest rifle shot in the Dominion, perhaps in the world at that time. Proofs of this were not wanting. The heavy-featured man became delighted with the skill and flattery of the fascinating white, who soon began to pour into his ears a vividly painted word picture where his own name recurred frequently, in conjunction with such expressions as power and wealth unbounded. He was aware of Riel's intentions—his desire to reclaim the land from the oppressor. To be brief, he had come to aid him.
The next scene represents the revolt from authority itself. Riel was nominal leader, but in all things he was guided by the cunning brain and persuasive voice of his white subordinate. This latter kept disguised as a blood Indian, with the paint, feathers, buckskin and bead work of the native warrior. For long none suspected the true identity, except, of course, the Indians themselves, to whom he was known generally as the 'White Chief,' or the 'Father's Friend.'
While this disguise remained, Riel triumphed. In every struggle Lamont's unerring rifle accomplished its pitiless work, until police and soldiers grew to dread the report of the Indian marksman's weapon. He kept himself always in a place of safety, well out of the direct flight of hostile bullets.
But an Indian traitor—there were many of them—who entertained a grudge against him, narrated the tale to hunter Sinclair of St Andrews one day while tracing up a moose. Lamont had formerly been an acquaintance. After learning this story he found a means of coming upon him suddenly, to prove the truth of the Indian's word. The name, of course, had been changed, but Sinclair penetrated to the identity by the report of his wonderful shooting powers. In his surprise visit, attended though it was by considerable risk, he was successful. The meeting was a dramatic one. After an appeal had been wasted, the hunter threatened to capture and hand him over to the Government. Lamont replied by snatching a revolver and firing at him. The hunter had moved quickly aside when he saw the intention, so escaped the bullet. In the dark night he escaped without further risk. Later the story became known widely, while a reward was offered for the apprehension of the White Chief. Yet Sinclair alone held the knowledge of his actual personality. To all others he was merely a name and a marvellous shot. Lamont suspected that Sinclair would not open his mouth, in the hope of himself obtaining the reward, coupled with thekudosof having, unaided, captured the Indian auxiliary. His only chance now was to follow up his former friend and kill him—especially as he now began to understand that Riel was doomed, that the Rebellion must fail inevitably.
His motive in thus allying himself to Riel must be sufficiently obvious. He had previously gone over all ground, had reckoned every chance, as he thought, to finally arrive at the conclusion that an insurrection of Indians and half-breeds must be successful. He was but an ordinary adventurer, yet of more than average intellect. He would sway the mind of Riel, the invaders would be conquered and driven out, the half-breed leader would be chief of the entire country—nominally only. The reins of power would actually rest in his own hands. To depose the dull-witted half-breed and obtain entire leadership would then be a comparatively simple matter.
But most men omit in their reasonings the single detail of importance. In this case he had reckoned entirely without the influence of the Church, and the extraordinary power which it held and could exert over its ignorant and superstitious children. When the Archbishop with his assistants first commenced their efforts, he had smiled disdainfully at the wild fancy of men being such fanatics as to be priest led. But this gratification endured no longer than a fortnight, by which time he found many on whom he had confidently relied laying down their weapons, returning to their homes with the declaration that they would abide by the command of their religion. The Intrepid Archbishop had conquered.
So he abandoned Riel to his fate and fled, with the price of blood upon his head, to remorselessly and energetically follow up Sinclair's trail. He might easily have escaped from the country, but the lust of vengeance was hot within him. Besides, he fancied himself in love with Marie Larivière. After the silencing of the hunter, he might be able to fan the flame of passion into a fiercer and hotter rebellion. So he followed the trail, even to the forests of the Great Saskatchewan.
'Well, well, Billy,' said the Factor, half an hour later, 'it's a wonderful experience you've had. I tell you, if you could have seen young Winton that night, and old Blackey rocketing around, you'd have reckoned yourself you were dead.'
'What's the matter with drinking Billy's health?' said Dave, thirstily.
'You're a cute lad,' said the Captain; 'fill up and pass the bottle. It's all right; Alf pays the racket.'
'I mind now,' broke in Dave. 'It was when I was raddled in the fort I recognised Lamont. Called him White Chief, I did, and he turned a sort of green colour. I mind it all now.'
'You were full, Dave,' chuckled the Factor; 'what I've said right along. That's the only time you're sensible, lad. Come on, Billy, drink your own health.'
The hunter had told his story amid constant interruptions of the above character. After leaving Winton, he had set forth through the gathering darkness to bring up the horses. He found them tethered as left, but when about to depart fancied he could detect—with the sharp hearing instinct of his profession—sounds of a stirring body in the bush adjacent. There were no repetitions of these motions, so he got the animals clear and began to move on the return journey. Then the conduct of the grey mare aroused fresh suspicion. She refused to approach a thicket of red willow lying slightly to the right of their path. He hesitated for a time, then, thinking her fear was probably due to some passing Indian, placed himself between her and the bush. Still he advanced with what speed he could muster. The loose rocks were slippery with dew, and the undergrowth tangling to the feet. He had passed, and breathed a sigh of relief At the same instant that brushing aside of bushes sounded again. Then a stone flew from the centre of the bush and struck the mare full on the side. She broke from him, plunging like a wild creature, and finally rushed away into the forest.
That same instant a low, vengeful voice broke forth in the gloomy silence. 'Sinclair,' it said, with a stifled laugh, 'I've fixed you now.'
That dreaded rifle cracked. There came the shock of the bullet, and he had fallen unconscious to the ground.
Here McAuliffe had interrupted eagerly, 'Tell now, Billy, was the pain bad?'
'Didn't feel a thing, except an awful sudden shock, same as you might receive from an extra strong electric battery,' replied the hunter. 'A fellow couldn't wish for a nicer way out of life. It's a case of alive one quarter second, dead the next. There's no suffering nor worry. You just hop out of life and step into eternity. That's what death by shooting is. 'Course only when it comes sudden and unexpected.'
'Diddled you fine, Captain,' said the Factor, rubbing his hands. 'See here, Billy, Captain and I had a big argument on that one time. He said a man couldn't be killed right off by a bullet. Suffered bad he did, before dying. I told him he didn't know the first thing about it. The fellow would turn up right away. I'm right again. Yes, Captain, got you fine. Here's old Billy jumped out of his grave, purpose to let you know.'
Captain Robinson blew forth a mighty fog of smoke, and remarked that McAuliffe was talking through his hat.
So, for once in his life, Lamont had made a mis-shot. At the time he must have been over-excited. Then his enemy was very close, and he was too confident. Still he had been quite satisfied that his skill could not fail, for he had gone off at once, without waiting to examine the body.
Menotah, passing happily from the river pool to the forest encampment, had come upon him immediately after. Half an hour later, and the triumph of the White Chief would have been complete, for his victim was rapidly bleeding to death; but the girl's skill, aided by the advice and health-giving restoratives of the old Antoine—who of course knew nothing of the rescue—had brought him back to life and strength. Her pity had gone out to this wounded man, who was far from home and friends. She was anxious to save him from suffering, so had cared for him as he lay for some days and nights beneath the red willow thicket, and when strength served, had led him to the hut by the swamp. For he had explained his wish for privacy.
'Say, Billy, where's that hut, anyway?' asked the Factor.
''Way down the swamp. Only she and the old medicine man know of it.'
'Thought I knew all the district. Wonder I never struck it.'
'It's well hidden. Petroleum swamp, too. There's a shining fortune lying around there.'
'No way of shipping it, and no market. But think of you hiding down there, and then larking out of the bush that night on me and Kit. You made me swear off liquor for a month, Billy. Why didn't you come back to the fort?'
'Didn't dare,' said Sinclair, shortly.
'Don't see what there was to be scared of.'
'Lamont. I tell you straight I was afraid of him. He's a strong will, while mine after that shot got a bit broken. I was weak and nervous as a baby all summer. Then, I reckoned, if I lay quiet till I got fixed up, I might be able to get in a dirty sort of shot at him to level matters. Yes, I was cowardly mean enough to want a pot at him, same as he put in at me.'
There was no remark, so the hunter continued,—
'When Lamont made off, last boat in the fall, my idea was to follow. Menotah helped me again. Through her I got a canoe with a couple ofnitchiboys, who paddled me away across to Horse Island.[1]From there I was lucky enough to get a passage in a late fishing boat. It was a terrible risky journey. We were frozen in twice; but it broke and we got back. Even since then I've kept away from Garry, until I'd got everything ready fixed. Didn't want Lamont to see me. He's round here, you know.'
'What's the plan now, Billy?' asked the Captain.
Sinclair smiled. 'A warrant will be out in the morning. We're going to arrest him in the night.'
'Any trouble getting it?' asked McAuliffe.
'Took time, of course. But, I tell you, the Commissioner took down what I had to say, as though 'twas a plateful of oysters.'
'There's the reward as well, Billy,' put in the Captain.
'Yes. He said my services would be referred to the Government—'
'Don't you believe it, Billy,' interrupted the Factor. 'I know that sort of darned business. They'll refer to each other, and this joker will write to another baldhead. He'll go on to some other fool, and that one will refer the whole crowd back to first correspondence. Then they'll start to work over again. By the time your grandchildren are getting oldish, you'll get a letter to say they won't give you anything, owing to lapse of time, incorrect information, and a lot of other truck. That's how they do business in Government offices. They work for eternity, they do.'
'Near shifting time,' said the Captain. 'I'll be finishing my smoke presently, then we'll make. Wake up, Dave.'
The latter gentleman was lolling over the table, breathing deeply. McAuliffe poured some water down his neck with instant result.
'It's your ante, Dave; hustle yourself. There's going to be a picnic round here. We're going to have Lamont arrested and strung up at Regina. We'll go there together, Dave, and cut a dido.'
It took yet another half hour for Captain Robinson to finish his cigar, so the others filled in the interval by much loud conversation, heedless of time, or peace of others in the little wooden building.
Ever since her entrance, Menotah had sat quietly in the dark corner allotted to her, without motion or speech. Frightened by the busy motion and numerous faces of Fort Garry, she had followed Sinclair with an almost dog-like submission, obeying his every word, yet only keeping silence on the matter that lay nearest her heart. Night and day she carried in the warmth of her bosom a black substance enwrapped in dry grass. It was of the appearance and consistency of solid glue. This was Antoine's last gift—a drug, which, when introduced into the blood, cast the body into a consumptive shivering no human art could cure. The time for its use had almost come, but she said nothing. They must not suspect her object.
But she was not to be left altogether to the quiet her soul desired. As the time for departure arrived, Dave, who was far from sober, suddenly caught sight of her. At once he lurched across the room.
'Here's my gal waiting here for me all this time,' he said. 'Darn it, boys, you've left my gal out of the fun. Come along with me, Menotah, and have a sit on my knee.'
He caught at the blanket and pulled it from her head. The beautiful unbound hair flowed down over her shoulders, framing the pale face, which looked up so pathetically at her tormentor. Hunter Sinclair thought of the deer fever when he saw those mournful eyes.
'Come on, gal,' cried Dave, coarsely. 'No moping when I'm around.'
She held out a little hand to him. 'Ah! leave me,' she pleaded pitifully.
'I brought you across the lake. You're going to be my wife, ain't you? No going back on your word now.'
'Come on, Davey,' cried the Factor, in a ripe voice, 'I'm waiting to see you home. No drunks allowed in Garry after nightfall.'
'My gal's asking for a drink. You're a mean dirty crowd finishing up the whisky, and not giving my poor gal a drop.' He lurched to her side, and took her cold little face between his hot greasy hands. 'Never mind, Menotah; I'll give you a good kissing instead. That'll be better than liquor, eh?
She struggled with deep panting breath, and weak little cries for pity. Poor stricken girl! her cup of misery was very full indeed. She was a woman and weak, but an Indian. They were men and white, therefore cruel. This distinction was wide and sufficient.
'Ah! let me go, if you are man and have a heart,' she wailed, with broken sobs. 'You made me promise you would leave me to myself for a time. Will you keep that promise thus? If you have pity, leave me.'
The others stood around with loud laughter and coarse jests as Dave put his amorous designs into execution. And these were men, loyal-hearted Canadians, who loved their queen and flag. The life of one of them had been preserved by the struggling girl he now refused to aid. True, they were all over-mastered by liquor, otherwise McAuliffe would certainly have interfered, probably also Sinclair on the lowest grounds of gratitude. But let it be remembered far worse things have been done, are done to-day, by such men, in full possession of their faculties, with sober and deliberate intent to ruin.
'You blasted gal!' shouted Dave. 'Can't you give decent kisses to the man you're going to hitch on to?'
'Wants harnessing, Dave,' said the Captain. 'Here, I'll hold her, while you smack her on the lips. Ain't she got a pretty little kissing mouth, too?'
He did hold her, careless of her moans and choked sobs. Dave twisted his hand into her silken hair and dragged her small head back, then pressed his dirty, liquor-tainted face across hers. She cried from her bleeding heart to the Great Spirit that he would aid her, and judge between her and these. And doubtless the Spirit heard that cry.
'I'm going, Dave,' stammered the Factor. 'B'lieve I'm nearly full. Must have some fresh air before bed.'
'Give us a show, Dave,' shouted the excited Captain. 'It's my turn, I reckon.' He pushed Dave aside, then tried to kiss the trembling, miserable girl.
But Dave was at him in an instant, with a dim idea that his rights were in danger of infringement. 'You'll insult my gal, will you? Darned if I won't fight you, Captain. I tell you, you don't know Dave Spencer. He's terrible tough when roused.'
He pulled off his canvas jacket, and danced like a figure on wires round the Captain. The other two interfered, and soon the whole four were quarrelling together noisily.
In the midst of this tumult, Menotah rose and quickly slipped to the closed door. Dave immediately wheeled round and lurched after her. She struggled with the handle, which she could not understand. He caught her by the arm just as the door came open. She clenched her teeth, then, as a spark of the old fire shot into her lustrous eyes, she struck him with all her strength full in the face with her free hand. Half dazed, he dropped to the floor, while she disappeared—out into the hot, clear night, beneath the kind gleam of the stars she knew and loved.
The quarrel ended. Dave was raised by jocular arms, swearing fearfully. He announced his intention of going at once after the girl and smashing every bone in her body. McAuliffe offered to join him, so the two tumbled heavily down the narrow stairway. The Captain and Sinclair lurched off in an opposite direction.
The former couple forgot all about Menotah, even before reaching the outer air. They stumbled along cheerily for a short distance, only intent upon their own happiness.
'Say, Alf, where are we anyhow?' asked Dave, thickly.
'We're all right, Dave. Straighten up, now; this is New York City,' came the confident reply.
'Don't say. Well, well, sort of thought I was in Fort Garry to-day. Couldn't have been, Alf, eh?'
'Course not. Ever been in New York before, Davey?'
'First visit, Alf. Fine place, ain't it?'
'Bet your life. First-class saloons, I'm told. We'll sample 'em, eh?'
Dave sniggered. 'I reckon.'
More he might have said, but at that instant they came upon a log lying across the road. Without the least hesitation they both took a header, then lay sprawling on the other side in the dew-wet dust.
They sat up, more pleased with themselves than damaged by the fall. 'Was it a cyclone, Alf?' asked Dave, blankly.
'Whist, Dave. Don't make a racket, or we'll have the police on us. They'll say we put that thing across the sidewalk. Disgraceful in a great big city like this, ain't it?'
Dave sympathised, then the Factor's note changed to anger. 'Goldam! I've split up my right boot and half smashed a toe. I shall go to a lawyer's office first thing, and sue the corporation of this darned city. Sticking obstacles on the sidewalk to smash the toes of honest citizens. Sha'n't be able to walk in Central Park to-morrow, now my boot's broken up.'
'Never mind, Alf. You can get boots half price from the Company. Nothing at all, if you cook the books.'
'Davey,' said the Factor, reproachfully. 'I couldn't do it. I'd like to cheat, but dern it, Davey, I can't. I'm too high-minded.'
For some time longer they talked from their respective dust heaps, while mosquitoes sang in the air, and frogs chirped in the grass around them. Then they climbed to their feet to continue aimless peregrinations.
'I know, Davey,' said the Factor, suddenly, as they came to a corner house. 'There's a nice little saloon right up here. Come on, and I'll drink your health, lad.'
'Isn't it next turning?' said the other, merely for sake of argument.
''Course not. That 'ud take us down to Broadway. Think I don't know my way about?'
'Long time between drinks, ain't it, Alf?'
'You're right, Davey. Wonderful fine place New York, ain't it? We'll have a drink, then I'll take you around on a car, while we take in the show.'
'I'm right on,' hiccoughed Dave. 'Come on, Alf.' They linked together, and staggered up the byway in the darkness. The road and themselves soon ended in a ditch.
[1]Geographically known as Selkirk Island, though wrongly placed on all maps.
[1]Geographically known as Selkirk Island, though wrongly placed on all maps.
While the lonely, heart-broken girl sat in that tainted room, her whole being bowed with grief, the drunken revellers shouting before her, many thoughts passed and flashed across the highly-strung mind.
Position, before that brutal assault, was as nothing. It mattered not at all that she looked on others enjoying themselves in the manner to them most congenial, that she was outside all this, barred by the law of race from having any part in their festivities, even had she wished it.
But why should men be cruel to her, she who had harmed no one? Why, because she was Indian, should she be treated as animal? She knew she was beautiful—once that knowledge had been the chief joy of the heart; she had, to the ruin of that joy, succeeded in attracting the desire of a handsome white; he had told her she was perfect in face and form, that she was in fact the divine woman of Nature. Yet he had taken her, under the seal of a false love, but to while away a few careless hours of leisure.
He would not so have treated the woman of his own race. Had he ventured to, others would have risen to prevent the insult Yet the same justice-mongers would have raised no bar to the ruin of the poor girl, more perfect, more trusting, infinitely more loving than her white sister. She might be trampled on, despised, destroyed. And why? Because she was merely the girl of the forest, the Indian, not a human being in their sense of the word.
Her brain could not unravel this paradox.
The tears of blood dripped forth silently. Once had she been Menotah, now time and treachery had changed that happy heart into dead fruit. The lively girl had grown to a revengeful woman. In such a state, sympathy would have been gall. True, there were none who would offer pity. Had there been, what balm of healing could their compassion bring to that diseased mind? Every incident in the bright past had faded, each hope and warm pleasure had been shrivelled up like a dry leaf and swept away For the one hour of deepest misery drives into oblivion all memory of the lapsed years, when joy was ever present, into forgetfulness each day of laughing sunshine, each hour of unburdened delight.
Each man or woman in the last despair can live upon the dreary phrase, 'There was a time.' All, whether in poverty, in death, or time of lost honour, may repeat the sad and mocking words for what consolation they contain. There was a time of youth, when sorrow was unknown, when the mind was always a butterfly with its light hope, when the heart was hot and large with love. It was summer then. Now it is winter—all is coldness and desolation.
Yet the hour of vengeance approached, when that terrible life duty must be discharged. She felt the substance warming in its poison by her bosom, and, in the bitterness of her grief, smiled. She must make entrance into her husband's room and find him alone. This drug had no internal effect, though its commingling with the human blood meant a death lingering and terrible in its slow wasting. She would place a portion in her mouth, then approach the destroyer with tears and bitter protestations of yet living love. As a last favour she would beg permission to kiss the hand which so often had fondled her. This he could not refuse. Then she would bite deeply with her poisoned teeth into the flesh, and watch him, as he fell away from her, with the fearful greyness spreading over his features, as the racking cold seized every limb and made each muscle shiver. Afterwards she might go away and look for peace.
Yet, supposing that he relented at the sight of her, that he renewed the vow of love, that he swore again to be constant. Should she grant pardon, if only for the sake of healing her own deep wound?
Never! Take again that which had been given in pure confidence, the gift which had been despised? She had given him her best, her all. He had broken it with scorn, had cast it down, and trampled on it with his feet. Perhaps he might even now offer to return it as a proof of his manly affection. What would be the value of such a gift? What would be the true feeling at the heart of such a man?
Then forget the wronger, and search for the true-hearted. If some men are faithless, there are others, and many, who are honourable. If there is one enemy, there are others who are friends. Surely such a vile man is not worthy of remembrance. Forget that black clouds of treachery have ever darkened the sunshine happiness of a past.
Forget! This, alas, is the ever-present impossibility of life. None may forget death, when its grim power lies across the body, nor may the wound be disregarded, while the red blood pours therefrom. Can the heart forget when it has been robbed of life, of health, of joy, of hope, of all that makes the world beautiful? There is but one thing that in such case may be brought as food for oblivion—the vanished happiness of the past.
For this wound was deep as death itself. There was nothing left but vengeance, and after that—after that—Rest comes only after duty.
How mighty were these white men in their creations! How weak were they in themselves! For, in the lust after power, they had cast aside Nature and her works. They knew nothing of the sacred fire, of the beauty of life. Across the mighty water they came in great vessels to seize upon the territories of the weak Indian. With might they had driven out right, and made the former owners slaves in their own land. But when these conquerors lay beneath the cold shadow of death, whom would they call upon for aid? The Indian, with his deep knowledge of healing medicines. When food was desired for the body, to whom would they turn for assistance? To the Indian, who alone could lead them to the spot where the animals lay concealed. When it was their wish to feast the sight upon things of wonder, whom would they summon? The Indian, with his inscrutable knowledge of Nature's inner secrets. Finally, when they wished to learn the power of love, it were useless to search for it among their own habitations. They must turn to the tents of the despised race, then depart with knowledge gained. Yet, by the law of justice, the white ruled the world. The Indian lay beneath his feet and looked to him for life.
Stranger than all this was the story of the white man's God. If the old mentor had not been advised wrongly, this God had walked the earth for years, to teach His children the lesson of life and death. This God must have taught them that women were of no account. One was to be taken and sported with, then cast aside for another. Their tears and their sorrow were to be laughed at and counted as nothing. This was strange teaching, for why should the woman be held so inferior to the man?
But perchance the white man had many gods, who gave each a different teaching. Yet no, it could not be. From all sides came the same unvarying tale of treachery and desertion. There were many white men in the country, yet they were all the same. All treated the women with cruelty, all were inconstant. Some there were who married, then deserted their wives for other women. The faith of the white God must be a cruel one. She would have none of it.
Yet, in obeying the prompting of her own mind, the will of the Spirit had been disobeyed. She had allied herself to one outside the tribe, and now but suffered the penalty of wrong-doing. A man who could not love joined to a woman with a heart. The result of such union meant misery to one, death to both. The heart continued its musings on the mystery of love.
Man is man, and woman, woman, whatever race or colour. They mingle together and pass daily, until one is strangely stopped by power of attraction for another. The man looks upon the woman, and sees that she is beautiful. She regards him with the growing thought that he is good and strong. Then, as the time passes, he comes to know that here is the life being whom the Great Spirit has brought into creation and led across his track, that he may take her to his home and call her his. For she was brought into life for him, and he for her. So he takes her by the hand in the evening time, and whispers in her ear, 'Let me twine my life with yours. Let us live as one, with soul to soul, having one mind, one wish.' Then she will agree, and the solemn compact is made, with the Great Spirit as witness. He has promised to shelter and clothe her, to care for her in time of sickness, to rejoice with her in happiness, to grieve with her in sorrow. She, also, promises to lighten his burden of daily toil with her soft love touch, to devote herself to him alone, to prepare his comforts, to make his home the centre of heart joy. But what shall be done to that man, who has fallen away from the great oath, by her who has remained true and faithful?
Let him be forgotten and forgiven? It were impossible. The heart, when it stirred into faint life, prompted otherwise. The teaching of the God was different. What justice was there in treating the apostate as though he had remained constant? Nor could it bring satisfaction to the stricken mind to see the God performing the work of vengeance.
Was there strength at the heart? Resolution for the meeting and the work? Doubtless, yet the strain and tension would be well nigh unbearable. There would be the journey, the watching for the opportunity, the anticipating of others, then the dread discovery before the once loved. After that must come the actual bitterness of the struggle. To look upon that face, which had been so indelibly stamped upon the memory; to behold again that well-remembered form; to speak and plead, with a love assumed, while hatred burnt within; to hold that hand, which had so often caressed her in the days of innocence. All such must be endured before commission of the act. The poison would be dissolving and stirring within her mouth, mingling with the breath, lying upon the tongue which had softly spoken to his ear the sounds of love. Another moment of strength, one more wave of feeling, and the work would be accomplished. The hand would be seized within hers, the touch electrifying each subtle sense current in her body. She would raise it to her lips, and she would kiss—yes, she would kiss first, then bite, burying her white teeth in the flesh with the mad intensity of the passion hatred, feeling his blood dripping and surging hotly across her mouth, mingling with the poison, which must then commence a deathly revelry along his veins. If the heart strength lasted for so long, all would be well. She might then crawl away to a place of quietness, cast down the aching body, and suffer the final pangs of ebbing life.
Was the heart of joy entirely dead? Had the single ice-stroke deprived it of all consciousness, blotting out the warm love and flowing vitality in a breath? The limb, frozen by the rigours of Arctic cold, is wax-like, cold, and dead to feeling. Yet it may perhaps be gradually revived and restored again to use and animation by assiduous attention. Was there not then some sensitive fibre of the heart, at present numbed by the intense frost of sorrow, yet which might be re-animated into at least a portion of the old happiness by tender nurture? The heart is so great in its far-reaching sympathies, so diversified in its range of feeling. Was there not a spot, as yet untouched by the mortification, one slight nerve which could yet respond to the anxious voice of friend—more, to the soft sound of lover's voice? Assuredly not. The heart was dead to feeling of human passion, alive only to its ice-cold determination of duty. Nothing could stir its sluggish pulsations as it lay within the flesh tomb. Not the excitement of her mission, nor the taunts of those who should have been men enough to have protected her from insult, not even the contemplation of again facing him she had so wildly and so foolishly loved, could awake that heavy, torturing burden within to a semblance of its past activity, to a shadow of the former brightness. All light and colour had been stripped from life. Even the body was cold, shrunken and debilitated. The mind had no resource to lean upon, the body no satisfaction to hope for. For the latter there remained death; the former looked only for silence.
A faint colour crawled into her thin cheeks and became constant, increasing in intensity of shade. The remainder of her face and the dull eyes became ghastly by contrast. Such a bright colour had once marked the rich stain of health; then it had altered to the pure heart blush; now it was the slow spreading fever of the mind. It seemed, indeed, as though the fire which had long been consuming her heart, after burning away the vitals, had spread to the exterior, there to consummate its work and consume the poor remnants of life.
There was one more thought at the dead heart, one doubting and perplexing query. Well might it trouble her, for none could have given answer to that constant cry—what is the rest that comes to the mind of sorrow after death?
Next morning the sun came up brightly in a clear blue sky. Two hours later a hot wind began to blow softly from the direction of the international boundary, bringing with it a heavy haze which soon settled over the entire heaven. Then the breeze dropped, while a dead calm brooded above and around Fort Garry. But the heavy atmosphere remained, enwrapping the place in a sweltering, mist-like shroud, through which the blinded rays of the sun fell sullenly in a stifling glare. Later, the heat became fear fully intense. Men, scantily attired, might have been seen stretched indolently in every patch of shade along the shelter of each house, fanning their perspiring faces with wide-brimmed hats. Insect pests, prominent among which appeared flying ants and malevolent 'bulldogs,' revelled in the thick air, to feed joyously off abundance of human and animal flesh.
Two strange-looking apparitions dragged their limp bodies from the depths of a profound ditch, which may even now be found to the west of the modern city of Winnipeg, and gazed around, then at each other, in utter bewilderment. Their faces were red with insect bites, and very dirty; their clothes were torn and covered with grass marks; they wore, in fact, the appearance of men who had unconsciously enjoyed a night out.
Presently the more genial looking of the two bethought himself of speech. 'Well, Dave, strikes me we've been camping out.' When the idea fully struck him, he slapped his knee as he sat on the edge of the ditch, and laughed lustily.
Dave was sulky and large headed. One side of his nose was much swollen, while a great thirst irritated his soul. He merely growled forth an incoherent reply.
'Tell you what it is,' continued the Factor. 'You've been loaded up again, lad. Guess I was seeing you home, when you went to work, tumbled into this ditch and dragged me in after you.'
The plausible explanation roused a sense of injustice in the other's breast. 'Why didn't you get out and go home, then?'
'It's a steep fall, Davey. Mind I'm getting oldish now. Reckon the shock would have stunned me. Must have been that, for I feel sort of queer in the head.'
Dave was panting like a dog, and vainly endeavouring to moisten his cracked lips. 'I've got a terrible thirst, Alf,' he exclaimed pathetically. 'I'm pretty near bad enough to drink water.'
Here the other could sympathise. 'You're bad, Dave, all right,' he said. 'Now you're talking, I almost reckon something cool would sort of make me easier. Come on, let's git.'
They dragged themselves upright to retrace the steps of the previous night. 'Goldam!' exclaimed the Factor, 'it's going to be a scorcher to-day.'
Presently they came out upon the Assiniboine. By a tacit and mutual understanding they shambled down the long shelving bank. Then, stretched at full length along the ground in luxurious fashion, they plunged their faces into the cool stream and sucked up long draughts of the pure water. Physically refreshed after this act of temperance, they sat for some time on a grass patch renovating their garments.
'Tell you, Alf,' proclaimed Dave more good-humouredly, 'folks'll be wondering what's lowered the river.'
They filled their pipes, though tobacco smoke was almost stifling in that atmosphere. Then they struck along the homeward trail.
'I'm terrible mixed up, Dave,' confessed the Factor, after a silent interval. 'Seems to me old Billy Sinclair turned up again last night. A fellow gets hold of queer notions at times, don't he?'
Dave assented, though somewhat doubtfully. 'I've got a sort of idea there was a whole crowd of us. A good crowd, you know, Alf, just having a quiet talk.'
'Then some bell started a racket, and old Billy's ghost turned up to scare us. Remember that, Dave?'
'Queer we should both get hold of the same notions, I mind hearing a laugh right by my ear, and I said to myself, well, well, that's just like old Billy's voice grin. Couldn't have been, Alf?'
'Don't see how,' said the Factor, unwillingly. 'Billy got fixed last summer.' But then a direful thought came upon him. He stopped and grabbed at his companion. 'You saw him, Dave? You saw Billy, same as me?'
'I didn't say that, Alf. I couldn't swear to it. I sort of thought I saw him. Put it that way, Alf.'
'How am I looking, Dave? Kind of wild the eyes—crazy, you know, Dave?'
'You look right enough. Eyes are same usual, 'cept for a bit of dirt under them.'
'Well, well,' muttered the Factor, reassured, was terrible scared I'd got 'em. But if I have, you've got 'em, too. That's sort of consoling, anyway.'
Dave was alarmed. 'We'll have to fix this up right away. It's ter'ble having to walk around, not knowing if your brains are right. What do you think, Alf?'
McAuliffe was inclined towards the gloomy side. 'It's a matter of doubt, clean enough. If we can see men that ought to be lying quiet in their graves, it can't be anything but a bad sign. We'd best make off to bed, Dave, and see if we can't sleep it off.'
'There's my nose, too. It's painful, I tell you. Feels as if someone had been dancing on it. That's another mystery, Alf.'
'There's lots of 'em,' said the Factor, mournfully. 'How did we come in that ditch, Dave? Billy's ghost couldn't have chucked us there. I'll make inquiries soon as I get back to the hotel, and find out if they know anything.'
'They wouldn't have seen Billy's ghost,' interrupted Dave.
'It's true enough, Dave. I tell you, I don't like it, for my head feels a bit shaky. It would be terrible if we were both locked up in an asylum.'
Dave shivered at the thought. 'I guess it's the heat, Alf,' he said hopefully. 'I'm feeling a bit beetle-headed—but not crazy. No, Alf, not crazy.'
'Then there was Captain smoking a cigar,' continued McAuliffe, blankly.
'I mind it. 'Twas how I reckoned the time watching it getting shorter. Well, well, Alf, we've had strange dreams this night, sure.'
'It's been a terrible bad night, Dave,' replied the Factor, ominously.
Then they quickened speed, in spite of the increasing heat, anxious to get back to the hotel and learn the worst. Their remaining remarks were divided impartially between mutual sympathy for a terrible affliction, and disputings as to whether the hunter's appearance had been real or imaginary. McAuliffe's final opinion was that Sinclair had actually appeared in the flesh, but that Dave was 'terrible crazy, anyhow.'
It was late afternoon before Sinclair felt himself disposed to stir outside into the white, stifling glare. But business called him, so he presently made off to attend to preliminaries of the approaching night work. This accomplished, he turned towards the hotel where he had made a dramatic appearance some hours earlier, but had not journeyed over half the distance when he encountered no less a person than Captain Robinson, as usual buttoned up to the neck in his blue coat, and pulling at a formidable cigar. This latter gentleman appeared to have no appreciation whatever of heat.
They linked arm in arm at once, though the hunter was unwilling to walk abroad for any distance. 'Don't want Lamont to get sight of me,' he said. 'It would scare him badly, I've no doubt, but then he might take it into his head to clear out before night.'
'Which direction does he live?' asked the Captain.
Sinclair nodded his head backwards. ''Way north,' he said. 'Comfortable little shanty. Married, too.'
'He's a daisy. Well, Billy, he's run down at last.'
'Sure enough,' agreed the hunter.
Then their conversation veered towards the events of the night preceding.
'Wonder where Alf is,' said Sinclair.
'I've just come from the hotel. Fellow there said Alf and Dave Spencer came tumbling in this morning, looking a bit used up, and crazy to know whether you'd turned up last night. They got mixed up over the drinks, so couldn't be sure whether they'd seen you or your ghost. Alf was wonderful relieved when he found out 'twas you right enough. Took another drink on the strength of it. He'd gone out again then. Guess we'll find him bumming around some place.'
Sinclair chuckled. 'Alf can't be still long, when he's awake. Got lots of life for his age.'
'Reckon I know him better than you, Billy,' said the Captain, who was dropping into a talking vein. 'Last night he was accusing me of being religious—so I am, mind you, Billy—but it may surprise you to hear that Alf himself gets the fit at times. No, you never would suspect him of getting any idea on religion. Before he went north as Factor, he was clerk in a store down Port Arthur way. I knew him well then. He used to have a whole lot of literary truck someone had sent him up from the States. Always reading these books, he was. You know, Billy, they weren't the sort of thing you could safely put before a Sunday school class. Well, 'bout twice a year regular, I'd get a bundle from Alf with a sort of note, which would read this way, "Got a bit of religious fit on me. If I kept these, reckon I should tear them up. I'd be sorry for that later. Sending them on to you to look after till I'm all right again. One in the blue cover's best for reading." A week or so later, another letter would turn up, something this way, "It's all right. Captain. Religious fit over. Send along books soon as you can." One day, though, the fit came on him sudden, before he had time to mail off the books to me; so he burnt them all right on the spot. Tell you, he was mad when the fit passed.'
They were now approaching the business portion, as represented by a short length of sidewalk, and a few stores crowned by offices. When about a hundred yards distant, they both became attracted by the spectacle of a knot of people, in the centre of which gleamed hotly the red coats of a couple of the militia, who at that time were responsible for the orderly conduct of those living in the Red River Settlement. The band approached slowly through the heat, while shouts and derisive laughter ascended continuously. There was a certain deep roar, which completely drowned all other voices.
The two outsiders became more interested. 'I'm dead sure that was Alf,' said the hunter.
'There's fun going on, sure,' said the Captain, beaming at the thought. 'Let's get over there, Billy.'
Sinclair soon spoke again. 'It's only a blackleg pulled up, Captain.'
The soldiers just then had particularly strict orders to immediately arrest all suspicious characters seen about the fort, because many unprincipled actions had latterly been committed by members of the loafer fraternity. Therefore the smallest unprincipled action perpetrated in Garry during these days, immediately subsequent to the Rebellion, seriously endangered personal freedom of action.
Then they came up to the excessively hot yet jubilant procession, which was composed somewhat as follows,—
A motley crowd of loafers and deadbeats, who jeered in unison, and part sympathy for the law-breaker, at the perspiring efforts of the police behind; a plentiful sprinkling of the omnipresent small youth, and ubiquitous dogs; then the culprit himself, half dragged, half supported by the two soldiers; close behind appeared the master of ceremonies, one Alfred McAuliffe, closely attended by a jovial party of grey-bearded men, who strenuously seconded the efforts of the chief speaker by pelting the prisoner with language and what missiles came convenient; the procession closed by more loafers of assorted classes, with other specimens of small fry, both human and canine.
All interest was centered upon the prisoner, who was being forcibly projected along the strip of sidewalk, indulging in language more varied than seemly. He was no less important a personage than Peter Denton.
The factor was in a condition bordering closely upon extreme bliss. Shouting with the full force of his great voice, he strode along the walk, inciting the already too-willing small boys towards the persecution of the luckless prisoner. A huge felt hat crowned the red face, which was glistening with heat and delight, while big drops coursed unregarded along his nose, to be buried and lost within the mazes of his thick beard.
'Reckon we've found Alf,' said the Captain, blowing a greasy smoke cloud from his lips.
'Well, I should remark!' said the hunter.
'Pick up good chunks of mud, boys,' shouted the Factor. 'Don't bother about the stones. Fifty cents to the younker who first catches him on the nose.'
'Make way, there!' ordered the police.
The advance guard of deadbeats yelled derisively.
'What's he done?' asked the hunter, stopping an individual with a bibulous nose.
'Hooked some bills that he found lying around a bit too handy—'bout fifty dollars, they say,' came the answer.
'They'll tan his hide for that,' chuckled the Captain. 'Where was it?'
'Don't know for sure. But while ago he started in to paint the Archbishop blue. Putting out some terrible talk he was.'
'They wouldn't stand that,' said the hunter.
'Bet you they wouldn't. The boys were hot at him, before the boiled 'uns[1]came round. Ter'ble thirsty day, ain't it?'
But this hint passed disregarded.
'Don't hit the bullet stoppers, boys. They're only for show, and won't stand rough handling.' The Factor's bodyguard loudly applauded this sally against the unpopular police force.
Then an old man, who was hobbling briskly along with the assistance of a couple of sticks, delivered himself of an opinion. 'I tell you, boys all, this chap's as crooked as the river. If I was asked to lend a hand to splice him to a tree, don't know that I'd refuse.'
'Right enough. He's a teaser,' said another. 'He was swearing bad, right out in the middle of the road, with ladies passing and all.'
'That's so. I was listening to him. After a while I swore back at him, but it warn't any use,' said a fat man, with the air of one who has executed an unpleasant duty. 'My pard, Sammy swore at him as well. Didn't you, Sammy?'
He gazed round, but Sammy was only conspicuous by absence.
'He was using fearful words of blasphemy,' said a weird-looking individual, in the mottled garb of a minister.
'You and he wouldn't quarrel on matters of religion, then,' retorted the deadbeat of the bibulous nose. The noise became at once increased by an exchange of vocal amenities, in which, be it said, the minister more than held his own.
The procession reached a drinking saloon. Here it might have been noticed that a perceptible diminution in the crowd took place. But the Factor refused all such temptations, and remained faithful to the end.
'You're speaking your own language now, Peter,' he shouted, in his stentorian voice. 'There's no hypocrisy in you now. Keep it up, boys!'
'Hit him for me!' said a malicious little man with a squint. 'That blackleg cheated me out of five dollars the other day. I've never been able to get square.'
'All your friends coming up, Peter,' continued McAuliffe. 'Goldam! wouldn't have missed this—not for a hundred dollars, cash down!'
'What there, Alf!' cried the Captain.
McAuliffe turned, and recognised the two. 'Come on, Captain! Here's more fun than a bagful of monkeys. Hello, Billy! Goldam! this is the first time you haven't scared me. Join right on with the crowd. After we've seen Peter to the cooler, we'll go and get some supper.'
They did as directed, while the Factor returned to business.
'It'll be a case of a big fine, or a few months on the stones!' he shouted, with considerable unction. 'Know you haven't two five cent pieces to rub together, Peter; so we'll have to part from you for a time. Guess a few of the saloon keepers will have to shut up after you're gone.'
The procession wheeled sharply round a corner, and made for the place of detention. Here McAuliffe was compelled unwillingly to part from his victim and return to the hotel. When there he put a leading question to the hunter, 'Got the warrant out, Billy?'
Sinclair nodded. 'We're going round to net him soon as it's dark,' he replied.
No question was asked as to the whereabouts of Menotah. Indeed, for the time they had forgotten all about her. She was not one of them, she had nothing to do with their affairs, so why should they think about her? Her sorrow could not concern them.