Her voice died into a wail of distress, as she fell on her knees and grasped his hand. This pitiless work had been performed unintentionally; the warmth and young life had been in a moment swept away by a mere suspicion of truth. Without the hut, blasts of north wind blew colder, with flurries of snow, while thin ice sheets formed slowly upon each black swamp pool.
'Where's he now?' came the abrupt question.
'I do not know. I have not seen him since noon.'
'The last boat leaves first thing in the morning.'
The echo of his words had scarcely died away, before a deep sound came vibrating along the wind from the direction of the river. Here was direct contradiction to his statement.
'To-night!' screamed Menotah, springing to the doorway. 'It is the second horn.'
The figure joined her. He was calm, though the face was vengeful. The long cloak had been cast aside, and he was now fastening a buckskin coat round his body.
'Make for the point,' he said shortly. 'Go for all you're worth. I'll meet you there. We may catch her as she passes.'
'It is a long way, and the paths are slippery with frost.'
They escaped from the labyrinth surrounding the swamp, and, when in the open, Menotah sped along with the agility of a deer. She easily outstripped the man, who followed at his best pace, the felt hat pulled closely over his forehead, as though he were still fearful of detection.
'So long, Angus. Sorry you're not staying the night. I'll have to finish off the bottle with my own neck now. The frost's getting sharp all right. I guess it isn't safe to stay.'
'We'll soon be clear of the river, anyway. The current's strong, with wind the right way.'
'That's so. Well, good biz, Angus.'
'S'long, Alf. Keep right till I see you in the summer.'
The last rope was thrown over, a dark sail hoisted, then the boat swept down, like a huge bird, towards the tree-covered point.
Here, concealed behind a sparse kanikanik bluff, a passenger awaited the boat. He was angry and dissatisfied enough. As minutes dragged past, he uttered many an invective against the absent personage, who had robbed him of the small treasure on which he had in great part depended for future enterprise. When the horn brayed discordantly forth, he slung the rifle carefully across his back, then crept forth to gaze along the wide reach of the river. Presently the black monster appeared. He stamped upon the rock to warm his half-frozen feet, then let himself carefully down the steep incline. A minute later he stood upon the shingle, at the spot where Muskwah had encountered his fate. The boat bore down over the cold waters, the steersman responded to his signals. With a distinct feeling of relief he found himself floating rapidly away from an inhospitable region.
Menotah did not proceed directly to the point. She turned very slightly aside to visit the hut, their rude home, which yet was for her filled and over-shadowed with the most blissful memories of life. There, she felt instinctively, might be found decisive answer to that torturing fear which now began to gnaw at the innocent heart of love. She must know at once whether the mysterious figure had erred, or whether he had spoken with the conviction that knowledge brings.
Never, not when the heart was at its lightest, had she sped through the forest with such hasty flight. Her sobbing breath—distress of mind and body—came and went in short hot stabs, as she burst from the last bushes upon the clearing. The hut was black and silent. There were no warm rays streaming from the half-open door. The only sound within was the melancholy chirping of a discursive frog.
Her shadow flitted across the threshold, then she sprang to the opposite corner, to dig away the loose dust soil with her trembling, slender fingers. The box of yellow stones. By this time she knew he would not depart without them, for he had lately explained to her their value.
Search was short and unrewarded. Then, when she perceived pursuit to be vain, she began more fully to comprehend the meaning of that look of pity which had so bewildered her trusting mind. His rifle, that usually leaned in the angle of the wall—why was it gone? He would not be hunting that night. Many other small articles, now remembered and looked for with sharp tension of memory—where were they? Above all, why did he stay out so late? Where was he?'
'Gone!' moaned the north wind, as it crept wailing into the hut. 'Gone!' cried her shuddering heart. 'Gone!' whispered each dull, inanimate object of her surrounding.
'Forsaken! Abandoned! Betrayed!'
So shrieked every waving tree, each lashing bush, the separate patches of white grass, awesome in the night. Her tired and bruised feet sped along once again. The eyes, burning and tortured, stared frightfully upon the black, distant headland, where the last pitiable hope of life joy yet reposed.
On and on, through the growing rigours of the night, while the heart that knew not sorrow slowly broke and died.
After the boat had drifted away, McAuliffe lit up his pipe and made his way back to the fort over the crisp, frost-spangled grass. An otter cap had taken the place of summer's straw bonnet; thick woollen gloves wadded his great hands; above the breeches he wore Arctic socks, secured at the knee with gaudy little tassels. Standing by the water had made him chilly, so he reflected cheerfully upon the black bottle which awaited him behind the blot of yellow light ahead.
'Goldam! the cold's a terror,' he remarked to himself. 'And I'm stiff as a frozen-in gold eye. Why, Kit, my girl! Where have you sprung from? Where's your pard, eh?'
He patted the grey mare, as she emerged from the bush with a soft whinny. 'You'd be a lot better fixed in your stable, night like this. Not much of a place, eh, old woman? Too strong on the ventilation question, I guess. Better than fooling around here, though.'
He pulled off a glove and rubbed the frost from her soft nostrils Then he noticed she was trembling and breathing strangely. Her white breath floated along the cold wind like steam clouds. Repeatedly she turned her head to sniff into the darkness behind.
'Something up,' mused the Factor. 'Kitty's scared, or she wouldn't play the old fool like this. I reckon there's someone there behind.'
The mare backed violently, almost throwing him down. 'Goldam! you're no chicken on my toes, I tell you, Kit. What's wrong with you, anyway?' He craned his neck forward, and presently muttered, 'Heard a sort of sound then. Kitty's derned cute. She don't rocket around for nothing.'
The breath released by the utterance of such words had scarce floated away, before the bushes parted with sudden movement. The following second a figure ran forth by the mare's side, and disappeared instantly in the darkness. McAuliffe had peered beneath the animal's neck, and, as the auroral lights shot for an instant into brilliancy, his eyes fell, for a breath only, upon that face, that figure. Then he shambled to his knees and embraced a frost-coated rock with hoarse exclamations, while the mare cantered briskly across the open space, snorting fiercely.
'I've got 'em,' moaned the Factor, rocking himself backward and forward in the strange, ghost-like light. 'I've been warned of 'em, and now they've come. O Lord! O Lord! I never prayed in my life, and it's too late now. Besides, I wouldn't know what to say. Now I'll have to go away and be locked up in an asylum presently, while the little blue and green devils hop and tumble around all the time. I drank square with Angus right along, and never mixed. There was only brandy, anyway. Now I've got 'em. I'm an old moonhead from this night forward. O Lord! O Lord!'
'He won't come back again,' the dark figure was saying, half kindly, half angrily.
The two stood upon the wind-swept headland. The boat had long since vanished into the night. Below rushed the mighty river, type of eternity's unceasing course. Above, the aurora flashed red shafts, while a soft moaning filled the sky.
She was sobbing fearfully. 'He has only gone for a short time. He desires something—for me, perhaps. Then he will return to me.'
The other placed a rough hand on her arm. 'It's no good, girl. You've just got to look square at a nasty truth. We all have to at times. He's gone by this last boat. He couldn't get back if he wanted to.'
Her head was bent, the face concealed in small fingers. 'But he loved me,' she wailed.
Her companion laughed hoarsely. 'He said so. Lamont was always clever with his tongue. But he can't love, girl. He hasn't got the heart for it.'
She looked at him with sore, tearful eyes. 'You know him, then?'
He stared in surprise. 'Well, I should say so! You know I've been hanging round here for the chance of fixing a certain man. I reckon you can guess his name now.'
'I shall hate you,' cried this strange girl; 'hate you, if you speak so.'
'There's no reaching? the bottom of a woman's heart,' he said carelessly. 'You must do what you like.'
'Oh, this is terrible, terrible,' cried Menotah, frantically. 'I have been saving you all this time from death, that you might murder the man I loved more than my life. But you have not yet succeeded, and now I know. How can I think wrong of him? He loves me; he told me so. He always said so.'
'That's a tale all girls will believe easily enough. But he's betrayed wiser folks than young women before this night.'
She had stopped weeping, and now looked at him with cold, fierce eyes. 'If I had let you die, he would have been safe.'
'The country is his enemy,' he said significantly, 'but I have his secret. He might have laughed all right if I'd snuffed out.'
In the same hard voice she continued, 'If I could kill you now, that secret would die with your life. Then he might be safe.'
The remark was so unexpected, that he was some time before replying. Then he said, 'You're a fool, girl, if you can't see the difference between friend and enemy. You've done lots for me, and I'll stay by you now.'
'How can I tell whether there be such thing as truth or right?' she burst forth. 'If he has deceived me, you may do the same. You, too, are a white man. If I had the power, I would kill you now!'
'Pshaw! you're crazy, girl. Doesn't matter to me whether you trust me or not We've both got the same enemy, that's all.'
She shuddered dreadfully. 'He is my enemy,' she said slowly. 'Oh! no, no!—not my enemy! Yours—not mine!'
The figure came up to her, and turned her pale face to the flashing lights of the north. 'You can't love him yet, girl?'
'I gave him my heart,' she moaned, tearing herself away from him. 'You cannot love against inclination, neither may you hate at will. I would hate him, but I'm too weak—I cannot.' A moment's pause, then she cried at him again, 'Why should I hate him—because he is your enemy? Tell me, how has he wronged me—tell me that?'
It was difficult indeed to convince that innocent trusting heart of a man's treachery and faithlessness.
'All right,' he said again, with the same touch of pity in his voice. 'Listen here a few minutes while I tell you.'
Then he stood by her side and narrated a tale of black treachery, of darkest cowardice. A man had committed the crime, which might not be forgiven. He had fled from deserved retribution, knowing there was one man who held the damnatory secret. Then he had encountered that man, and determined to silence him for ever.
But when he again became silent and wiped the cold frost dews from his face, the girl bent like a crushed flower, knowing that the joy of life was gone—that the dark shadow of grief had settled eternally across her path. Amid the sighing of the wind and the sharp passion of her own sense came the clear memory of her own words:—'If anyone should kill my heart with sorrow, I would give life and strength to the cause of vengeance. I should never turn back.'
The man at her side was astounded at the entire change that had passed, like the devastating breath of the cyclone, over the girl. A plain, blunt man, and inartistic, he could not know that pure happiness is one of the principal factors of human beauty, that its dissolution should be attended by such startling alteration, both of face and form. Menotah was a different being, of new appearance and manners. The bright light had faded from the lustrous eyes, now forbidding and snake-like. The unrestrained laugh had left the mouth, which was now set in a hard line of purpose. From her sunken cheeks had departed the rich health colour, from her hanging head that haughty pose of conscious perfection. Within, the heart was dead—cold—unresponsive. No longer did it pulsate with mingled delicious emotions of devotion and trust. It was now controlled only by an unrelenting design—by the inexorable duty of the future.
There was no further use for the attributes of beauty. They had been once utilised for the purpose of attraction. They had succeeded—fatally so. Now their work was over, and they might well be laid aside.
She was calm now, and the voice was steady when she spoke. 'We will take each our own path,' she said. 'I have a husband to find, you an enemy. I shall be before you. He is mine. I have his word for it' (Her eyes flashed fiercely.) 'He shall be my victim!'
'Let it alone, girl,' said the other, in a voice meant to be kind. 'A man can best do a man's work.'
But she turned at him again, with the fury that was part of her new nature.
'What do you know of vengeance? I know a man's honour, a man's method. He will shoot from behind a tree, stab with a knife into his foe's back, then go away satisfied. No one but the wronged can punish the wronger. You call death the worse, but there are many things more bitter than the destruction of life. If you cannot believe that, look upon me and consider what I was. You men are weak after all when it comes to the point of vengeance. We women apply what we lack in muscular strength to the passion of the heart. We do not fail at the great moment.'
'It's no good crossing you—that's a sure thing,' said the figure. 'Still, I shall have the chances—'
'I can make mine,' she interrupted. 'A man may give up disheartened after first failure; a woman will return with fresh energy to the attack after a hundred reverses. Listen to what I say; judge me if I fall away from my oath. This man has betrayed me; he has broken my life, my happiness; he has abandoned me as the scorn of my people; he has cast me aside like a broken weapon. Mayhap he is now laughing at my broken heart.
'Therefore I swear by the Great Spirit, by the Light and the Darkness, by the River—even by the Great God of the white men—that I will have my vengeance, that he shall suffer for my sorrow!'
So they passed together, from the sullen gleaming of the Saskatchewan, to where the fires glowed red in the encampment.
Later, on that same dark night of sorrow, the aged Chief lay in his miserable hut, dying. By his side stood Antoine, more withered and time-stricken than even his fast fading companion. Behind, at a short interval, appeared the heavy countenance of Menotah.
Outside, within the ruddy circle of the smoke fires, squaws squatted in statuesque positions, softly beating at drums to keep aloof the evil spirits. Also, many dark shadows of warriors crossed and recrossed, muttering incantations to the weird cadence of the music, as they passed round the enclosure with arms waving wildly above their heads. The strangely coloured scene was unnaturally impressive.
The tale of Menotah's grief was known, even to the dying Chief. For he had heard a muttered conversation at his side, and had prayed Antoine to tell him all. The news, expected though it was, convulsed his feeble frame with a last passionate fury. He drew himself frantically upright, and stretched out a claw-like hand.
'Why did we not slay him? That would but have called down the wrath of others. Better their vengeance than my daughter's despair. Antoine, why did you not poison him with strong drugs?'
The Ancient stood motionless, though his lips trembled as he mattered fierce words of execration. He had looked for this end from the first days of opening passion. He had besought the girl he loved to learn the lesson of hating the perfidious white, even as he did. Words had been useless; no prayers might avail against the will of the stubborn heart.
'Trouble not, my father,' said Menotah. 'I have knowledge now, and can avenge myself.'
A dull light crawled into Antoine's eyes as he raised his head and noted her expressionless face. 'You speak like a daughter of the tribe, child—as one that I have taught. 'Tis well. You must live for vengeance. Before this night I told you thus. Behold it is true.'
'Vengeance! Vengeance!' came in thick utterance from the now prostrate figure.
'You shall look from the hunting lands, old friend, and behold your daughter avenging herself upon enemies. The sight will gladden your heart, as you sweep over the fields, and slay the buffalo with hand that misses not its aim.'
'I shall see her ... you, also, aiding her.'
'Surely. Then, when the work is over, we shall hasten to join you in the sun country of joy. There sorrow will be lost in success.'
'Is there light?' asked the dying wreck, struggling to raise his head.
'There are the red fires below, and the cold ghost lights in the sky. The light is sufficient.'
'I see no longer ... the blood is ice in my veins ... to-morrow you will give my body to the flames ... I shall go forth with my weapons along the way of shadows ... young again, with eternal strength.'
'Far from the white man, and beyond the reach of his cruelty.'
The Chief groaned, while the deep breathing grew more difficult. The fires crackled sharply, while the drum rattling rose louder on the night air.
'Daughter,' he gasped, 'come to my side ... put your hand upon mine and swear.'
Silently she obeyed. The blue fingers closed hungrily round the warm rounded hand of his child. For a space he lay silent, fighting for life breath.
'Menotah, my child-love, my age-light, I shall see you again in the joy land whither the Spirit calls me.... You must swear, by that you hold in honour, you must take the great oath, never to pause on the path of vengeance ... until you avenge your wrongs on the life of the vile white.... Good Antoine will aid you.... Strike, child, and pity not. Let his blood be spilt for your lost honour.'
The effort had been too great. He lay, throbbing with death agony, while a thin stream of blood trickled from the mouth and coursed slowly along a deep furrow of the chin.
'He passes,' muttered Antoine, hoarsely. 'It is time. On such a night was he born. So does he die, amid the north wind and biting cold. Swear, child, lest he die cursing you.'
A hollow exclamation ascended from the withered form. 'Swear!'
Then she placed the right hand on her father's head, and raising the other aloft, with stern voice and unflinching determination, took the oath which might not be broken.
The final flicker of strength darted into the exhausted frame, that sudden flash of energy which heralds the silence. 'Antoine,' he whispered, 'raise me to the light. So will I die cursing the white man.'
The Ancient raised the emaciated form in his shaking arms. For a few seconds, faint, yet intensely bitter words of condemnation and hatred fell from the blood-stained lips, before life faded away into the unseen. Menotah, still holding the hand, felt the shudder of the departing soul, and caught the distant echo of a voice—forced, as it seemed, from the cold body, after the passing of the Spirit, 'I go, daughter ... it is dark.'
The dreary death chant and low groaning of the women beat upon the night.
Half contemptuously Menotah turned from the still form, with passion unexpressed. Antoine lifted his slow, watering eyes from the withered remains, to gloat upon her hopeless aspect.
'You grieve not, daughter?'
'I have done with such things as joy or grief,' she said savagely. 'My destiny calls, and I leave the emotions for the sport of fools.'
The Ancient shivered, for the cold bit into his stiff limbs, 'You speak as he would wish to hear. You shall have your desire, child. I have said it.'
Half mad, she turned to the open door and called to the dusky-featured ones squatting at the fires,—
'Shout louder, women. Howl until the voice breaks the wind and scatters the ghost lights.[1]Beat your breasts for the sorrow that lies within the camp. Louder, I tell you. Cry louder.'
Antoine laughed hoarsely. 'Ay, shout! He hears you not. Perchance the god has an ear open to our cries.'
The uncouth strain of savage melody swelled fitfully upward in long, suffering cadence, then fell, dying away in shuddering murmurs, to ascend again more loudly, yet more bitterly.
Menotah clenched her small hands and bit the pale lips in the agony of the yet living heart. Then Antoine was at her side, nervously plucking at the blanket that trailed from her shoulder.
'Hearken, daughter. To-morrow we must burn the old Chief, and send him forth upon a long journey. Then there is duty—'
'You may forget,' she broke in coldly, 'but I—'
'Peace, child, let me have speech. You were ever over ready with your words. I am aged, and strength is not mine. I must be satisfied with controlling the striking weapon. So I can only aid by cursing your enemy, and by praying to the God.'
'May your god-hunting be successful,' she said scornfully.
'The God of the white men has the greater power,' he continued unmoved. 'He has conquered ours, and bidden the enemy rule over us. Therefore, daughter, I would for the time follow that God.'
'You, who always hated the white, become one of them! What plan is this?'
'Then I should be one of His followers, and He would hear my prayers. Now I have other gods, so He could not listen to me. I would beseech Him each day, to grant us vengeance upon the white man.'
'Will you sport with the lightning?' she said calmly.
'I care not. I will take canoe, before the ice binds the river, and paddle for six days. Then I shall find one of their doctors. I have heard the wanderers tell of him. They call him Father Bertrand. He must tell me what I am to do, to join the followers of the white God.'
She turned from him wearily, longing vaguely for silence and isolation. 'Pray to whom you will; all gods are the same. They laugh at sorrow, and they heed not.'
'You shall see, child. I have greater wisdom than you. But now we must take our part in mourning for the dead.'
He took her cold, resistless hand, and together they stepped within the ruddy glow. Then he raised his sh king hands and cried aloud,—
'Mourn, warriors! The Chief, who led you to battle, who kept you in peace, who gave you wise counsel, your father, your ruler, is dead. Cry aloud to the Spirit, and sing your songs of grief.
'Mourn, women! The Chief, who loved you, who protected you, who smiled upon you with favours, your father, your husband, is dead. Scream your lamentations, tear your hair, dig the sharp nails into breasts, and cry aloud in your grief.'
The unearthly melody surged upward in a tumultuous wave of sound, until the auroral lights flickered like flames in the blast. The air became thick and silvery with frost crystals, while sharp cold settled along the ground. This was a night of frost, of death—of fearful and unutterable despair.
[1]The shout of the human voice repels and scatters the auroral lights. Hence many Indian legends.
[1]The shout of the human voice repels and scatters the auroral lights. Hence many Indian legends.
A radiant flood of light poured from the white moon upon the rippling waters of the Red River. A grove of black oaks along the bank waved silently in the clear night; frogs chirped merrily from the fenced in fields, where fireflies sparkled and flashed before a long dark background of foliage. Along that portion of the shelving bank, where a young man and a dark-haired girl walked closely together, might be perceived on looking back the twinkling lights of Fort Garry, from whose stone walls the shadow of war had now lifted for ever. Nearer, outside the actual fort, a grey stunted tower shot upward from the thick of an oak bluff. Here rested in their last quiet many of the brave English and Canadian boys who had fallen in the late Rebellion.
Winter and spring had passed since the desertion of Menotah. That time had wrought change to the western and northern country, a change, sad perhaps, yet necessary from the standpoint of civilisation. The last traces of vengeful fire in the breasts of those who had joined the insurrection had been stamped out, the final agreement had been made, the white again triumphed. Louis Riel had swung upon the gallows at Regina, before the eyes of many on that dreary, treeless plain, that no traveller who has once seen can forget. There was no leader, no keen spirit left. So the survivors gladly snatched at that, only thing they could now ask for—pardon.
Yet the question of justice, from the position of the conquered, may be still worth considering. One of the half-breeds most zealous to the cause spoke thus in the echoing valley[1]before his priest,—
'Why did I fight, my Father? I, who have the blood of the white men in me. It was for that reason that I fought, and that I killed. The white man came into a country which was not his, which had belonged to others for many hundreds of years, and he saw that the country was good, and full of animals. Also he perceived that the women were beautiful. So he said, I will make this place my home, and call my friends to come here also. These men came, and brought with them guns and fire-water. Then they took the women, first one and then another, and had children by them. So was I born, and I have brothers and sisters of many different mothers. Yet the father was the same. But what could the Indians do against the white man's guns? They said, give us back our wives and our daughters, also our land and our buffalo. But the white man only laughed, and gave them fire-water, which ate away their manhood and their courage. So they said at length, we will rise up and reclaim our own. We have now nothing to lose, for the white man has taken all from us, except life. Let him take that also, or give us back that which makes it happy. That is why I fought, my Father.'
It is a strange fact in modern times, and one so far unrecognised, that the Rebellion should have been crushed by the power of the Roman Catholic Church. Standing merely upon the path of duty, Archbishop Taché, with his band of gallant priests, amongst whom Father Lecompte must stand predominant, succeeded in quenching the flame of human passion entirely by means of that extraordinary devotion entertained by these ignorant children of the Rebellion for their kindly teachers.
Actuated the Archbishop certainly was by a high sense of duty, yet it was also right that he should subsequently look for that reward which the Government had promised, as some slight return for the salvation of a country. It is notorious that such reward was never paid. It is, or should be, universally known that there was but one care which distressed 'the man of the great heart,' as his 'children' affectionately named him, upon the deathbed at peaceful St Boniface,[2]still a care heavy enough to almost break that generous heart The Government had steadily refused to redeem their promise, or to grant to Manitoban Catholics that separate school system which is their right and their due, which above all has been solemnly assured them. Still, it may not yet be too late to perform a tardy justice, which, on the side of the Government, is a duty.
Now the days of the bloody scalping knife have sunk into history. The nondescript individual, who to-day answers to the title of Red Indian, is a very different being from the noble prairie trackers of the olden days, before the introduction of whisky and vice. Up in northern districts, far from the damning pollution of traders and treasure seekers, may still be found at long intervals the haughty heathen warrior with his paint and feathers of liberty. But in all other parts the immorality of the white man has done its work too successfully. Is proof required? Then listen. It may be doubted whether there is at the present time a single full-blooded Indian alive on the Canadian prairies!
Should such types of humanity—Longfellow's 'Hiawatha' accurately depicts them—be utterly extinguished? Look at the Menotah, the Muskwah, of this work. These are true life studies, which may hardly be found to-day, never until civilisation, with all its attending evils, has been left far from sight. Is the taciturn, morose half-breed, heavy in feature, abnormally dull in intellect, an efficient substitute for such? At that particular spot on the Great Saskatchewan where the scene of this narrative is for the most part laid, any at this day might well blush at owning affinity with white men. That once noble race, the origin of which is beyond all conjecture, who possess secrets, powers and occult arts beyond all our discoveries, must be blotted out during the lives of most. Riel made an effort to save it, not an unselfish effort, still he did his best. Where he failed, none may succeed.
But to return to narrative.
One of the two figures on the Red River bank to the north of the fort was Lamont. His companion was a young girl of French extraction, named Marie Larivière. She spoke the English with a pretty accent, and hung to the arm of the handsome young man with clinging tenderness.
The gates of Garry were now thrown open wide. Any might go forth upon the surrounding prairies or enter the young city. All danger of hostility was past, and the land was at peace.
'But talking about being constant,' the girl was saying; 'it is such an easy thing when the one we love is present.'
'And rather too much the opposite when he's away, eh, my Marie?' said Lamont, with the lover's softness.
'Well,' she said, with dainty hesitation, 'one naturally looks for that which custom has made us long for.'
'But when I was away, you found others to take my place, didn't you?' he asked, gazing eagerly at her small face, with the dark crisp curls nodding over the forehead.
'It's not a fair question, Hugh. You may be jealous if you like, but still I have something against you. That long mysterious journey north; you can't give me a reason for that.'
'Business,chérie. I thought of you all that time.'
She laughed. 'You were quite satisfied with thought only. Come, tell me the truth. Was there not some hidden attraction there? I have heard that the Cree girls are beautiful—some of them. Was it one of them?'
He joined carelessly in her mirth. 'Who is jealous now? Are you afraid of an Indian rival, my Marie? But who are these?'
Two other figures came along the trail in the white light. One was tall and stooping, the other short and brisk of step. They were talking together in French. So still was the night, their voices might be heard before they were themselves visible.
The couples advanced and met. Then Lamont gave a quick exclamation—more it seemed of fear than surprise—and pulled off his hat. 'The Archbishop!'
He it was, enjoying the cool of the evening. The tall priest by his side was Father Lecompte, the man of his right hand. This latter looked careworn and very ill.
It was, in truth, a kindly face that turned towards the young couple as they passed—smooth, clean-shaven, with a pair of soft eyes, crested by wavy hair. At that time it bore a tired, anxious expression, result of recent incessant toil. The privations he had suffered for the country of his adoption had been great. Through heat and cold, by river, prairie and forest, he had travelled; on horse, on foot, by boat, for many days and weeks. Often without food, always lacking rest, until the great work was accomplished, and he had won. A truly noble-hearted man that.'
'God bless you, my children,' he said, in the quiet, thrilling voice which all knew so well, as he smiled upon them.
'I couldn't speak,' said Marie, breathlessly. 'It is strange that one should be overawed by such a good man. I couldn't thank him, or anything.'
'He was the last I expected to meet along here. I didn't know he had returned.'
'Doesn't Father Lecompte look ill? You know he accompanied the Archbishop on his travels, and it has broken his health.'
There was a silent pause, while they came slowly towards the brilliant lights of the inner fort. Then she said musingly, 'So Riel is dead.'
'What made you think of him?' he asked quickly.
She raised a hand to point towards the grey tower, into the shadow of which they now entered.
He thought of the dead that lay around, and shuddered. Then there came back to him the recent execution at Regina; the dark figure, champion of a hopeless cause; the lines of mounted police; the cosmopolitan crowd; the dreary plain. He thought also on a certain figure in that crowd, one who had watched the mournful and dramatic scene with almost a wild interest. It was only a disreputable loafer, with ragged garments and dirt-begrimed features. It was, in short, a man with identity fearfully concealed.
'Come,' he said suddenly, drawing her gently on, 'let me take you home. It is late, and to-morrow will be busy.'
After seeing hisfiancéeto her home, Lamont set out along the irregular street, which followed the meandering of the river, towards his lodgings. The brightly illumined window of a saloon attracted his attention, and allured him to enter for a chat with the proprietor on latest matters of local interest. So he came into the smoky bar, where the usual throng of deadbeats—broken-down English gentlemen for the most part—were talking or shouting, according to the amount of liquor imbibed. Some of the figures that loomed through the thick cloud of smoke were decidedly unsteady. Very prominent among this latter class was a certain individual of cadaverous complexion and yellow moustache, at the sight of whom Lamont started with a short oath of gratification. The man was unquestionably Peter Denton.
He quickly nodded to the bar-tender, who knew him, then passed to a side room, where those who placarded themselves in the outer world as exclusive devotees to the cause of temperance were wont to be served in strict privacy. Here the wielder of the cocktail flasks soon joined him, with the usual salutation, 'How goes it?'
'Who's the chap over there, that one with the sandy hair?' asked Lamont, pointing towards the bar through the drifting smoke.
'That? Just a crazy sort of ranting fellow. Ter'ble drunken lot he is, too.'
The other laughed in his self-satisfied manner. 'See here,' he said, catching at the bar-tender's shirt sleeve, 'I've been after him since last fall. He made off with some shiners of mine. Guess they're stowed at his lodgings, if he hasn't got away with them all.'
'You don't say,' said the man, making an accurate shot through the fog at a distant spittoon. 'He looks a crooked tool, right enough. Still, I've not heard much talk against him, and long as he can pay for liquor, it's not my biz to speak. What'll I do?'
'Load him up. I'll stand the racket.'
'I tell you, he can take a fancy quantity. What's the plan?'
'When he's too raddled to know me, I'll offer to see him home.'
'Then search round the shanty for the dosh?'
'That's what.'
The bar-tender chuckled. 'That'd stand some beating. I'll go and fix him up with a drop of drugged spirit. You'll wait here, eh?'
The scheme could not fail to succeed. Denton was 'ready' for his enemy in less than quarter of an hour. Some trouble was experienced in getting him to the street, but once there he was quite prepared to accompany his newly found companion. Leaning heavily upon his arm, he staggered, with the unfailing instinct of the drunken man, towards his home, which was nothing more pretentious than a dirty little shack in a sheltered spot without the fort.
Once inside, Lamont went promptly to work without loss of time. There were but two inodorous rooms, the innermost of which contained a truckle bed. Upon this he dumped the garrulous Denton, then left him, singing cheerfully a hymn of doubtful wording for self-edification. Afterwards he lit a broken lamp and made search for his missing property.
First impressions conveyed the idea that, if the gold had been secreted in this place, it would not be difficult to come across it. For, beyond a bed and box in the one room, table, two chairs, cupboard and crazy bookcase, which hung gingerly to the loose plaster, in the outer, there was literally no addition to the original building. Carpets and curtains were luxuries unknown; coarse paper had been fastened across the lower portion of dirty window frames; a rickety stove was propped against the wall by means of a couple of bricks. Lamont searched everywhere, in each nook and dirt-encrusted cranny, by the greasy light of the lamp, which dropped faint yellow rays along each sordid article. Then he dragged the proprietor from the bed, pulled off the coverlet, searched mattress and floor beneath. He ransacked the shreds of rusty clothing, tapped the crumbling plaster, examined every part of the flooring. But there were no traces to be discovered of Menotah's first and only material gift. Denton must have parted with the whole under pinch of want.
Lamont turned up the flickering flame—the oil was failing—then kicked the drunken wretch on the floor. The ex-minister responded with an unsteady homily on the joys of humility. Then Lamont reflected.
He felt certain that this was the culprit who deserved punishment at his hands. That would be a simple matter. All he had to do was to dash the dying lamp to the floor, then depart. This crazy shanty of dry wood would be in ashes within the hour, and the drunken body of its owner cremated.
So he stood for the moment undecided, then smiled slowly and shook his head. Nerve was wanting, even for such a little thing as that. Perhaps he was getting weak. It might be that there were already sufficient unpleasant shadows haunting the past. An addition to such might well prove beyond tolerance.
Denton's tongue had ceased its unmeaning flow of words, as its owner slowly sank into the deep slumber of inebriation. Lamont went into the other room, placed the lamp on the table, then seated himself, still following up the new line of thought recently suggested. To-morrow he would be married to a girl he believed he sincerely loved. Then he would settle down to a changed life, and restart with a new set of morals. The past, as a thing gone, was to be forgotten. He would now become a respectable citizen of the new western metropolis.
Then his eyes wandered carelessly round the darkened room, as he leaned forward to turn up the flickering flame from its dull red smouldering. Light darted through the heavily smoked glass, and he found himself gazing upon Denton's large Bible, which stood on the bookcase shelf. His lips curled into a contemptuous smile. Then he went across the dry, creaking boards and pulled down the worn book. To his surprise the balance was uneven, while a hollow rattling came from within. All attempts to open it failed, as the leaves appeared to be firmly bound together. But when he came to look at it more closely in the dim light, he realised that what had once been a book was now a box. There could be no doubt on the matter, for a small keyhole was visible immediately beneath one of the boards.
He placed this imitation between his knees and burst the lids apart. A quantity of paper, with a small buckskin bag, fell out upon the floor. The next instant he held in his hands his recovered treasure, or rather the larger portion only of the original gift. Denton had evidently laid them aside as a private bank from which he could draw from time to time.
Examining the case, he saw that it had once been a Bible, but that a hole had been cut in the centre of each leaf, the remainder at infinite labour having; been fastened together securely.
There was nothing to keep him after this discovery. Leaving the book on the floor, in close proximity to its sleeping owner, he pocketed the bag, then stepped out on the beaten trail and made for his lodgings. On this occasion he reached them without incident.
[1]Qu'appelle. (Who calls?)
[1]Qu'appelle. (Who calls?)
[2]See prefatory note.
[2]See prefatory note.
'Say, Dave!'
The Captain turned his head slowly, then drew the short stone pipe from his mouth.
'Hustle over here.'
Dave came leisurely across the grass space.
'When are you getting, Dave?'
'Morrow; noon,' came the brief reply.
'Call it day after, and I'll come,' said the Factor.
The Captain looked surprised. 'How'll you manage, Alf?'
'Don't tell you everything, Davey. I've got my leave all right. Justin can fix things while I'm away. Goldam! it's time I had a bit of a rip up.'
'Well, I can't do it, Alf.'
'You can, Dave. Just think a while. You're on good time this trip. A day this way or that won't go for anything. I'll fix it up for you, Dave. The skins weren't quite ready to be shipped; the darned old boat wanted some pitch on her side—scraped her over a sunk rock, you know, Dave. Lots of easy lies, if you like to make them. I can fix five first-classers while you're thinking out one hoodoo, Dave.'
'You can't by a jugful,'said the Captain, hotly. 'I've more practice than you, Alf. There's generally something to reckon for, end of the trip. Tell you, it strains a fellow's invention pretty hard sometimes.'
'See here, Dave. Early morning, Thursday, we start south.'
'Suppose it wouldn't make such a lot of difference, anyway.'
'Course it won't. You don't get me for a passenger every trip, Dave.'
'That's so. There'll be another beside you, though.'
'Who? There's nobody round here, far as I know.'
'Someone's going all the same. She's under my protection, too.'
'She! it's never Menotah?
Dave nodded. 'Mrs Spencer that's going to be.'
'You're fooling, Dave. She hasn't got the stuff to pay her passage.'
'We've fixed that. Tell you, I'm looking after her.'
'But she's not going to hitch on with you?'
'That's what,' said the Captain, stolidly. She's been after me for a long time. Reckon she's caught me at last.' He sighed with an air of resignation.
McAuliffe burst into a lusty laugh and slapped his knee repeatedly. Then his great face suddenly grew grave, as he thought on the darker side of the picture. What could have induced the heart-stricken girl to a promise of marriage with the ugly little Captain? Perhaps she had lost all sense and reason, poor girl. Then he said, 'Tell how you managed it, Dave.'
'This way,' said the Captain, nothing loth. 'I was fooling round by the boat, watching the boys loading her up, when Menotah comes round to me all of a sudden, and asked if I'd take her across lake. She couldn't pay for the passage, but she did her beautiest to make me say I'd agree.'
'Well! well!'
''Course I hopped at the chance. Said I, see here, Menotah, you want me to take you south. Just say you'll splice with me, and I'll put you across the lake many times as you like.'
'What did she say?'
'Fairly corked me, I tell you. Didn't think, or stop a minute, but just said yes at once. Made me promise I wasn't to come round her, till she'd done some job or other down Garry way. But say, Alf, what's come over her? Her eyes are like a couple of chunks of ice, while there's never a smile to be seen on her face. She's a darned pretty gal yet, all right. Queer things gals, ain't they, Alf? There's no understanding them. Guess she's been after me all this time. Well, well, she's caught me now, so I reckon she ought to be happy.'
The Factor was deep in thought. 'You wouldn't take her across, 'cept she promised to be your wife, eh?' he said slowly.
'You wouldn't want a fellow to lose a good chance, would you?'
'Well, Dave, if you want my opinion, I'll give it you straight. I call it a sort of mean trick to serve the gal. I know her better than you do, mind. She's got some scheme in her brain. It's a thing she's dead set on, and when it's done, she'll likely drop you. You mark me, lad.'
'She won't marry me, eh? See here, Alf, you don't know the first darned thing about it. I tell you, I'll make her.'
'And that'll be a tough sort of job. You'll find Menotah isn't the sort of gal to stand making. Bet you what you like you don't marry her, Dave.'
'You're getting cranky,' muttered the Captain. 'It's no business of yours, anyway. I'm going to marry my gal. If I reckon she's not going to stay by her word, I won't take her across. She don't play any of her women's tricks on me.'
McAuliffe laughed. 'I'll get even with you there, Dave. Derned if I won't pay her passage myself. You'll have to take her then. How's that, lad?'
At this decided cheek, the angry Captain moved off and made toward the stage, muttering diatribes against men who interested themselves overmuch in the affairs of others. Finally he found relief to his feelings by kicking an Indian, who had taken advantage of the Captain's absence to get a comfortable siesta in the shade.
From beneath heavy eyebrows McAuliffe watched the retreating figure with low chuckles. He enjoyed getting the better of Dave. Yet in the kind heart, which beat beneath a very rugged exterior, there lurked a secret and real pity for the broken girl, once the sunshine of that land, now the emblem of its misery. From long contact with the natives of his district he had learnt much of their religion. He knew with them vengeance was not merely a gratification of passion, but a duty which might not be neglected. He shrewdly guessed that Menotah possessed some secret design against the life of the man who had professed for her such love, who had yet cast her aside and gone back to the world, heedless of the misery he had created.
McAuliffe was right. Dave had also spoken truly. It was Menotah's intention to cross the lake, and that she might obtain her wish, she had consented to marry the Captain of the boat.
For the desolate girl had concluded that it was time to discharge the last duty of a short life. Then, and not till then, she had a right to release the breath, and return to the Manitou, that hazy land of the Beyond, where her father dwelt. There, if she first obeyed the will of the god, the heart might find its peace.
Those long past months of winter and early summer had been charged with the fulness of horror and loneliness. As she lived for an object, so mind and body strength never entirely forsook her. For herself she cared not, nor for happiness of others. But she only struggled on beneath the overwhelming weight of life, until the time should come when the spirit called to the sombre duty of fate.
To her, in that misery, day and night, sunshine and storm, were alike. What mattered it whether the ground was flower vested, or mantled with snow? There was no difference in the touch to her bare feet. Whether the trees were joyful in summer, or black with winter? The picture of Nature was unchanging to those eyes. Whether faces surrounding her were kind or stern? The heart had done with the idle phantasy of affection. Each day dragged its hours away, detail with that preceding, to be replaced by another equally lengthy, not less dreary. Environment partook of the nature of a constant hallucination. As there was little life within, there could be but slight animation in surroundings. When she had been happy, her light-heartedness found novelty in things that had in themselves no real change. Now that she was so deeply sunk in the slough of despair, the shifting moods of others expressed always the same, the monotonous sentiment—hatred of herself. For she had cut herself apart from the people of her name by a forbidden alliance. By her own selfish act she had drawn disgrace upon the tribe.
The birth of her child, though it brought another pang of torture, proved perhaps the means of preserving reason. Maternity was detestable, yet it carried responsibilities which might not be neglected. Bitterly she reflected that here was another creature born to despair and misery. Surely it would be better for this smiling boy to die, and know not the horror of living. But when the tiny voice was first lifted in unconscious appeal for nurture, resentment perished beneath the sudden passion of early motherhood. What if the father was villain and traitor? Here was at least a portion of her own body, flesh of her flesh. The child should learn the name of mother, but never that of father. It should love the one parent and hate the other. Often she dimly reflected as the infant lay, breathing softly in healthy sleep, upon her knees, knowing not that he was the child of misery and the son of a broken heart. And such were her thoughts: Ah! if I might only live to bring this boy up to manhood and teach him the lesson of his life. Then should one appear far greater than Riel, one who would gather together the sons of the Ancient Race from the four winds, from the ice ocean to the count of the wind, who would swoop, like the Spirit of the Storm, across the land, from lake to forest, from rock-land to prairie. Then, with his justice and his might, he would blot the white traitors from the plains which were not theirs, he would drive them from the wide fields they had wrongly stolen from others. Then the country would come back again to its own children, and there would be joy at the heart of all.
But, at length, she felt within her that hot flame which warned her of duty. Then appeared the black boat upon the river. It but remained to secure passage in her across the Great Water. Dave was repulsive and hateful, yet she gave ready consent to his demands. No obstacle could be allowed to stand in her path at that stage. 'When I have finished my work, I will again think of joining myself to a man,' she had spoken bitterly, as she turned back to the dreary hut.
Before that long journey to the south, one detail of the plan required attention. So, on that evening when Dave and the Factor had a difference of opinion regarding herself, she turned her heavy footsteps toward that place where she knew the old Antoine might be found. Very feeble was her mentor now. Outside the door of his hut he crouched in the last sunshine, the nodding head leaning against his staff, quivering hands tapping feebly on skeleton knees, bleared eyes deeply sunken, ears uncertain of sound. To any passing along that silent pathway he might have appeared as a very personification of grim sorrow. To the grief-stricken woman he was fit emblem of the vengeance she sought, worthy representative of the evil one himself.
With the child resting upon her back within the blanket, she came and laid a hand upon the Ancient's shoulder. He peered up with dreary eyes and would have forced a smile into the long wrinkles of his shrunken countenance.
'So, child; you have come.' Such was his greeting.
'For the last time, old Father. To seek one more service, then to trouble you no more.'
'It is no pain to succour those we love. The life fades from my body, yet the warm love remains still within. Sit at my feet, child, as you were wont to do. Tell me what it is you desire.'
She did so, yet in the motion a soft fluffy head brushed the old man's knee. A shudder convulsed him, as he endeavoured to drag the stiff limbs from the hateful contact. Feebly and vengefully he cried, 'Take that away, child! Why have you brought him here to torment my eyes?'
Not a muscle of the girl's face moved. 'I forgot,' she said coldly.
Then she arranged the blanket at the foot of a tall pine, wrapped up the child in it, and returned.
The Ancient spoke. 'Daughter, I know the matter on which you would speak. Make speed with the work, for my body strength has gone. I would wish to see the end, so may I tell all to your father in the joy land. Memory is now a faint shadow of the past. Yet will I speak on those things I may see dimly with the mind. A white man has destroyed your heart, my daughter; he has betrayed you; he has left you to the death misery. You would have punishment brought upon that man. Is it not so, my daughter?'
'It is so, old Father,' came the stern reply.
'Methinks there is still a faint shadow of memory remaining. It tells me that on a certain night I prayed you to listen to wise words. But you cast aside the love advice. So the anger grew upon me, and I said that surely a day would come when you would creep to me with a heart of sorrow, when you would pray me for help in the work of vengeance. Methinks that memory is not all shadow.'
'It is truth. I ask not for pity. I have prepared this suffering for myself. Let the dead past lie dead.'
'I would not call up the black tale of grief to wound you, child. Youth follows the unreasoning heart always. Now it but remains to find the remedy, to strike, to kill.'
All the malevolence in his nature poured forth in the whispered sounds. His wrinkled face grew hideous as he looked at her, the grey-white hair hanging in sparse lines along the neck.
'For that I have come,' she said defiantly.
''Tis well. Am I not living but to aid you? Ah, child, might I only listen to your soul laughter again. Might I hear your song of happiness, I would go then with contentment to the fire, and breathe away my life with joy. Can you not find one smile, child? Is there not hidden in the cold heart a last laugh, my daughter?'
He would have said more, but she frowned and interrupted him. 'That which is left of the heart is not for joy or sorrow. To feeling it is dead. Were I now to laugh, the sound would strike terror to your soul. Can the ice thaw on the winter's day?'
'The heat follows,' he muttered. 'The flame of the sun will lick up the ice.'
'The heat will come; you speak truth, old Father. It is the fire which must consume my body.'
'Talk not of it, child. Even now the vision closes round me. Each day I look for the end. For you, life lies in the Beyond.'
Her passion was at length awakened. 'Life!' she almost shrieked in his withered face. 'Dare you speak of that which has passed? Already I have lived, and now stand ready for death. For, when misery comes, what is life but a memory, and what is memory but agony, and what is agony but death? May not I speak on such things? Happinessislife. When it is gone, that which is left is death. Perchance the body may still move and ask for food; may hate—it cannot love; may grieve—it cannot rejoice. Within all is dead. Only a hot clinging to action for the sake of vengeance holds the body from corruption.'
A small portion of the old colour returned to her thin cheeks. Her breath came and went quickly. The old man weakly upraised his shaking hands. 'Cease, child. The senses fail me,' he gasped. 'Speak into my ear. Tell me what it is you wish.'
She raised her face, until the young lips touched the scanty locks. With set face and hard voice she spoke a few words into his ear. He listened with slow nods of his feeble head. 'I have it, daughter. The materials lie within the hut.'
'It would be successful?' she asked indifferently.
'Unless the Spirit robbed it of power. The plan is well thought of, my daughter.'
'In the early morning I will come. Will it be prepared?'
'A shorter time will be sufficient. No, it cannot fail. Often have I made trial of it. Not in vain have I passed long nights beneath the moon. Not in vain have I plucked the strange herbs, and fed the plants with black blood of the dead. Much knowledge was given me by those who went before. Yet there will be more for those who follow me. Daughter, find me here when the moon touches yon distant ridges. Then can I say farewell, and lay my old body to the sleep.'
She gazed at the trembling figure and the palsied limbs. 'Perchance the sleep will be deep.'
'No, my daughter; there is time yet. Hot life burns within me, fierce life. The fire yet lives after the dying down of the bright flames. You shall find me here when you return. You shall pour into my ear the glad song of your vengeance. The young are swept aside suddenly, but the old survive and see the world decay.'
'Is this the teaching of your new religion?' she asked scornfully.
'I but spoke the mind thought. Of the new religion all things baffle belief. When your work is done, I may gladly return to the gods I have loved.'
'What is there in the new faith which passes understanding?'
'I can see nothing clearly. The doctor, who threw water on my forehead, and drew thereon a charm, told me we should love those who have made life bitter to us. It were great evil to punish them, for in the hands of the God alone lay the might of vengeance.'
'Should we then treat friend and foe as alike?'
'The doctrine is false,' he cried shrilly, as the evening shadows rose from the river. 'What is the gift of the hand when the thought at the heart is hatred? The doctor further told me that the God once lived as a man and walked the earth. More, He was even killed by the men He had called into being.'
'Why pray to One Who is dead?'
'He lives again. Now He has come through the unknown of death, no power may touch Him. Therefore is He God.'
'I believe it not,' cried Menotah, clasping again the child in her arms. 'Behold! it is now my turn to give you advice. Return to your own gods, who bid you take vengeance and crush the foe. Not willingly would you harm those you love. Why then should you have pity for those you hate? I trust not to such teaching.'
She turned to depart, yet the old man sent after her quavering words, 'Let not anger prevail over the mind, my daughter; for when the blood runs hot, and the heart rages with passion fire, the hand may tremble and the eyes may fail. See there is no need for the second blow.'
She cast the words back at him as he sat huddled before the door. 'You may throw aside your fear. Have I kept this strength to fail at the last hour, when retribution lies like a gift in my hand? I, child as you call me, am older even than you. The day of sorrow is longer than the year of joy.'
'You will return?' he muttered, dimly perceiving that she moved away.
'When the moons dips upon the ridge summits,' she said. Then, with the child clasped to her bosom, she disappeared with slow step amid the fast gathering darkness.
A big bluff man, with wide, glowing face and stentorian voice, entered the precincts of Garry about the end of July. He came invigorated by the prospect of a fortnight's leave, with the outspoken intention of enjoying himself. At every saloon—for he visited each impartially—there was a resonant welcome from many boon companions. McAuliffe was popular in his way among those of his own set.
So, three days after arrival, he might have been seen proceeding along the principal street, accompanied by half a dozen elderly men, lined and bearded, yet all disporting themselves like boys released from school. They were all 'Company lads,' down on leave from northern posts, actuated by a single idea of padding their few days of emancipation by as large an amount of dissipation as possible.
Presently this gang rolled round an abrupt corner, to collide heavily with a thickset man, buttoned up to the chin in a thick blue coat, and smoking a cigar of abnormal dimensions. With difficulty he retained his balance, though he completely failed to preserve contact with the undue length of tobacco, which was dashed from his jaws by the force of impact, and lay in the white dust. Before the owner could reclaim it, McAuliffe had seized him in a bear-like grip.
'It's Captain!' he bellowed. 'Darned if 'tisn't old Captain Robinson.'
'Why! why! Alf McAuliffe, if I'm not a liar,' gasped the other. 'Well! well! Hold on there, Alf. There's an hour's smoke lying on the trail. Wait till I get my fist round it.'
'Boys!' said McAuliffe, turning to his companions, 'I'm going off for a while. Want to have a talk with Captain here. Pass over the basket, Pete.'
'You'll turn up later?' cried the satellites in unison, one of them handing over a small brown hamper, which he seemed to relinquish not unwillingly.
''Course. I'll meet you round the tent. Think I'm going to miss the fun?'
Every beard wagged, each eye twinkled, at the prospect of approaching diversion.
'Come on. Captain,' shouted the Factor, 'So long, boys. You're spoiling for a good scrap, the whole derned crowd of you.'
'S'long, Alf.' Then the chorus, influenced by entire mutual understanding, wheeled into an adjacent saloon, whither McAuliffe followed them wistfully with his eyes.
He was, indeed, consuming with badly suppressed excitement. 'What do you think is the last racket. Captain?'
The other blew a mighty cloud of germ-destroying smoke, and shook his head.
'Never could guess a thing, Alf. Let's hear it.'
'Peter's preaching!' burst forth McAuliffe, in a voice that might have been heard the other side of Garry.
'What, never old Peter? No: Peter Denton, that used to serve drinks at the Tecumseh? I mind him well. Terrible on praying he was. Used to say a grace before and after every glass of liquor. Not him, Alf?'
'That's who,' continued the Factor, heartily, 'That same living lump of hypocrisy. He's got a big tent fixed up 'way north side of the fort, and he holds what he calls revival meetings there every evening this month. There's a sermon, then he takes up a collection—for rescuing unsaved brethren. Least that's how he puts it, but I've got a fairish notion that the only unsaved brother who has a look into that money is Mister Peter himself. Don't tell a lie about it anyway, do he, Captain?'
The other chuckled behind his unwieldy cigar. 'What's your racket now, Alf?'
'Going round there later, along with the other boys. We're going to put ourselves in front seats and take in the whole darned show. We'll have some fun, sure. Peter don't know I'm around here. He'll feel wonderful surprised when he sees my old face peeking up under his nose. Wouldn't wonder if it didn't come near spoiling his sermon.'
'Well! well! You're a teaser, Alf. But say, what's that you've got in the basket there? Seems to me sort of uncomfortable to the nose.' He blew a cloud of smoke, then sniffed suspiciously.
McAuliffe was almost ashamed of himself. 'Well, now, I'm a derned sort of old-fashioned baby, ain't I? It's disgraceful at my time of life. See, I don't often get a holiday, Captain. When the chance comes, I'm bound to kick around a bit and knock up the dust. This is just a sort of modest surprise party I've fixed up for Peter—to mind him of old times, and show there's no ill feeling, you know. Captain.' Then he produced from behind his back the brown hamper. The same appeared particularly attractive to the flies, for a multitude of every species and size hovered and buzzed over the straw cover. 'Don't touch. Captain. I tell you they're as hearty as skunks.'
The Captain coughed suddenly, as an unsavoury odour assailed his nostrils.
'What is it, Alf? Been buying up old fish?'
'Just eggs,' came the modest answer. 'But they weren't laid yesterday. Tell you, Captain, if you look close, you can pretty near see the feathers shooting out of the shell.'
'You're sort of hard on old Peter, strikes me,' began the other, but McAuliffe choked him off at once,—
'Nothing's bad enough for the cowardly rascal. Shouldn't be surprised if we cut the tent ropes before we're through with him.' He laid the redolent hamper on the ground, that he might rub his hands in delight at the thought.
This public demonstration called forth the astonishment of a passing Chinaman, who stood and gazed blankly at the big man's evolutions.
'Here's more of your pards coming around,' said Captain Robinson. 'They'll be running you into a cool place presently, Alf, if they see you cutting these sort of didoes.'
'Dern his gall!' exclaimed McAuliffe, catching up the hamper and thrusting it against the Celestial's face. 'You git home, Johnny, and wash your clothes.'
With unusual alacrity this command was obeyed.
'Now, Captain, come on back to the hotel and have a feed with me.'
'Can't do it, Alf. Got a whole crowd of things to fix up. Come round later, if you like.'
'Well, be up half past nine. Sharp on time, you know; I'll be there. Room No. 14. You'll find your way there by the smell of whisky. Least that's what Dave said. Wonderful nose Davey has for that sort nothing, anyway.'
'Right. If you don't turn up, I'll reckon the police have got hold of you for making a disturbance, eh?'
McAuliffe picked up his basket with a chuckle. 'I'm young enough to play the fool, but I'm too old to get caught,' he said. Then he made speedily towards the saloon, where he knew his elderly companions might still be found. A few minutes later he was vigorously quarrelling with the bar-tender, who wanted to eject him and his unhealthy burden.
It was a strange spectacle, one which probably might not be seen in any other country, thus to find several men, all of them distinctly past the prime of life, indulging in capricious acts of rowdyism which could only befit the average schoolboy. The officials of the H.B.C. chained down as they are for the greater part of life to the monotonous loneliness of some northern station, form a class apart from all others. As such a class they are especially distinguished by a strong craving after liquor—a natural product of a continued solitary existence—and a juvenile impetuosity of manner, which can only exhibit itself during their few days of leave, when they can return to civilisation to feel themselves again surrounded by fellow creatures. The reaction is a natural one. The anchorite who returns to the world generally plunges deeply into the whirling vortex of pleasure, to make up as far as possible for all he has lost. A conclusion points at once to the axiom, that folly is no respecter either of age or person.
It was half an hour after the time appointed, when McAuliffe, arm-in-arm with Dave Spencer, tumbled noisily into the hall of the hotel, where Captain Robinson was waiting behind another cigar of great proportion.
'Fact is,' burst forth the Factor, as he entered in cyclonic fashion, with a cut across the forehead and his big face adorned with several bruises, 'we had a bit of a row with some of the fellows. Come on upstairs. Captain; there we'll have a smooth time for next few hours. Yes, 'twas a regular set-to tussle,' he continued, as they arranged themselves upstairs. 'It wasn't so very far from a free fight. But we got the best of it. Yes, we diddled them—though we weren't much of a crowd, far as numbers went. Davey here came along just the right time, and mixed himself up fine. I tell you, Captain, you'd have curled up if you'd have seen Peter's face, when he spotted me sitting right down front of him, with a grin on my face you might have measured by yards. What with me encouraging him in a sort of whisper all the time, he couldn't talk worth shucks. I just wish I could have got his face photographed later on, when old Billy MacIntosh caught him per-lump on the end of the nose with a fairly meaty egg. Tell you, it would have drawn a grin out of a fence post. Dave was squirming around like a pesky worm.' He dropped heavily into a chair, and shook again with laughter.