"WHERE DO I GO FROM HERE?"
From Stoell's Brent drifted to "The Nugget," where for a month, he dealt faro on percentage in a "limit" game—for with the tin-horns and thechechakoshad come also "limits" and "table stakes."
Here, "The Queen of the Yukon" passed and repassed his layout a dozen times in an evening on her way to and from the dance-hall in the rear, but never by even so much as a look did she admit that she recognized him.
On the afternoon of his first payday, he sat in a "table stakes" game of stud and a run of luck netted him seven hundred dollars. Whereupon he promptly went on a spree that lasted three days and when he again showed up for duty another dealer was presiding over his layout.
The next day Cuter Malone called him into a little back room and sounded him out. "Hear how yer out of a job," quoth Cuter, as he set two glasses and a bottle upon the little table between them. Brent nodded, and the other continued: "Want to keep on dealin'?"
"Why yes, I guess so. I'm going to hit the trail right after the break-up, but until that comes I might as well be doing something."
"Sure. Well I got a good percent proposition fer you. You'll draw quite a little trade—you done it at Stoell's, an' then swung the heft of it over to 'The Nugget.'"
"Is it a limit game?" asked Brent. "What percentage will you pay?"
Malone filled the glasses from the bottle, and having drank combed at his black beard with his fingers: "W-e-e-l, that's accordin'. This here game I'm figgerin' on is a sure thing—that is, o' course, lots o' turns has got to lose, but in the long run she wins big."
"What do you mean—a sure thing?"
Cuter grinned craftily: "D'ye ever hear tell of a double-slotted box? Well, I've got one, an'——"
Brent interrupted him with a short laugh: "What you mean is that because I've got the reputation for being square, you want to use me for a decoy, and when they come in, rob them on a percentage."
"Well, that's—er—talkin' it out kind of plain——"
"You can go to hell!" exclaimed Brent, "and that's talking it out kind of plain, too."
Cuter laughed: "Don't git sore about it. Business is business, an' I'm into it to git the money,one way an' another. If you don't want to deal, how about goin' behind the bar? That's a square enough game." He paused and grinned. "An' I wouldn't mind fer onct havin' someone handlin' my dust that I wouldn't feel like friskin' every time he went out the door to see how much of it had stuck to him."
And so Brent began tending bar in the notorious "Klondike Palace," and Kitty, as she faced him for the first time with her dancing partner and called for a drink, addressed him in words that to her partner meant nothing: "Your toboggan is going good, now—ain't it, Ace-In-The-Hole? You're most there, now—most to the bump that lays at the end of the trail." And Brent served the drinks, and answered nothing.
The "Klondike Palace" was the wildest and most notorious of all the dives of the big camp. Unlike Stoell's and "The Nugget," everything downstairs was in one big room. The bar occupied a whole side, the gambling tables and devices were in the rear, and the remainder of the wide floor space was given over to dancing. At the rear of the bar a flight of stairs led upward to the rooms of the painted women.
And it was concerning one of these painted women that, three weeks later, Brent had his first "run in" with Cuter Malone. It was bitter cold and snowing thickly, and Brent, with lowered head, was boring through the white smother on his wayto work. He paused in the light that shone dully through the heavily frosted windows of Malone's and was about to push open the door, when from the thick darkness around the side of the building he heard a woman scream. It was a sharp, terrible scream, that ended in a half-muffled shriek. And without an instant's hesitation, Brent dashed around the corner. The "Klondike Palace" was located well upon the edge of the big camp, beyond it being only a few scattered cabins. Scarcely fifty feet from the street he came upon a man standing over a woman who was cowering in the snow. Neither saw him, and even as he looked the man struck with a coiled dog whip. Again the woman screamed, and the man jumped upon her and started to kick her first with one foot then with the other as she lay in the snow. Like an avalanche Brent hurled himself upon the man, his fist catching him squarely upon the side of the head and sending him sprawling. Without waiting for him to get up, Brent jerked the woman to her feet and pushed her toward the street. He saw then that she was one of the girls who roomed over Malone's, and that she was clad in the thinnest of silk stockings, and the flimsiest of semi-transparent gowns. One of her high-heeled slippers had been lost in the snow. Scarce able to stand, the girl staggered whimpering toward the light. Turning upon the man who had regained his feet Brent found himself looking into the muzzle of a forty-five. So close was the manthat even in the darkness he could see his face. It was Johnnie Claw, and Brent saw that the recognition was mutual. Claw's thick lips writhed back in a grin of hate, and Brent could hear his breath sucking heavily between his clenched teeth. Eye to eye they stared as Brent's lips moved in a sneer: "Well—you—damned—pimp—why don't you shoot?" To his intense surprise, the gun wavered, dropped to the man's side and, jamming it into the pocket of his fur coat, Claw pushed past him toward the street, mumbling thick curses.
Later, that night, when business was a little slack during a dance Malone motioned him aside: "Say, what the hell be you buttin' in on other folks business fer?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean. What did you go knockin' Johnnie Claw down fer, when he was givin' that damn Violet what was comin' to her, fer holdin' out on him?"
"Giving her what was coming! My God, man, he would have kicked her to death there in the snow—that's what he would have done!"
"Well, what if he did—she's hisn, ain't she?"
A surge of swift anger almost overcame Brent. His fists clenched, and it was with difficulty that he refrained from striking Malone down where he stood. Instead, he leaned a trifle closer to the man: "Just let this stick to you, Malone," he said, "What passes between me and Claw, or me and anyoneelse, when it isn't on your premises and on your time, is my business—see?"
Malone laughed, shortly, and with a shrug, turned away, while Brent served drinks to a couple who had left the dance and sauntered to the bar. The couple were Kitty, and a strapping youngchechakocalled Moosehide Charlie, the name referring to an incident that had occurred early in the winter when he had skinned out a moose and, finding himself far from camp and no blankets, had wrapped himself in the green hide and gone to sleep. In the morning he awoke to find himself encased in an iron-hard coffin of frozen moosehide unable to move hand or foot. Luckily a party of hunters found him and spent half a day thawing him out over a roaring fire.
Said Kitty to Moosehide Charlie, as she sipped at the liquid that by courtesy was called port wine: "That's Johnnie Claw over there by the door. He's one-two-three with Cuter Malone—some say they're pardners."
Her companion swallowed his liquor and glanced indifferently toward the object of the girl's remarks. "It ain't worryin' me none who he's pardners with. I don't like the looks of him, nohow."
"Sh-sh-sh," warned Kitty, "What a man learns in this country don't hurt him any. I was just telling you so if you ever happened to run foul of Claw, you'd know enough to keep your eye on Malone, too."
"Guess I ain't goin' to run foul of him. Come on, let's dance."
Kitty had not even favored him by so much as a glance, but as Brent removed the glasses from the bar, he smiled.
The days were rapidly lengthening on the Yukon. At noon each day the sun was higher in the heavens and its increased heat was heralded by little streams of snow water that trickled over the ice of the creeks.
One evening when the grip of winter had broken and the feel of spring was in the air, Moosehide Charlie stood at the bar drinking with Johnnie Claw. It was too early for the dancers and three or four of the girls sat idly along the opposite wall. As Brent served the drinks, he noticed that Claw appeared to be urging the younger man into a deal of some kind—he, caught a word now and then, of reference to dumps, slucings, and water heads. Moosehide seemed to be holding out. He was a man who drank little, and after two drinks he turned from the bar shaking his head. "Come on," urged Claw, "Have another."
"No, two or three's my limit. I don't aim to git drunk."
"Drunk, hell!" laughed Claw, "I don't nuther. You've only had two. Make it three, an' I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll throw off a leetle on that claim. I ain't got time to fool with it, noways."
Moosehide returned to the bar: "Well, one more,then, an' that's all. But you'll have to throw off more'n just a little on that property, fer me to touch it."
Claw filled his glass and pushed the bottle toward the other and as Moosehide Charlie measured his liquor, out of the tail of his eye, Brent saw Claw pour something from a small vial into his own glass and return the vial swiftly to his pocket. The next moment he was talking earnestly to Moosehide who, as he listened, toyed with his glass, rubbing into patterns the few drops of liquor he had spilled upon the bar.
Cuter Malone had himself carried a tray of drinks to be served at one of the poker tables in the rear, and just at this moment, tray and glasses struck the floor with a loud crash. Moosehide Charlie turned quickly at the sound, and as he did so Brent saw Johnnie Claw deftly switch the glasses upon the bar. Malone returned, grumbling at his clumsiness, for another tray of drinks, and Claw raised his glass. "I guess we kin deal, all right. Le's drink, an' then we'll slip into the back room there an' figger it out."
As Moosehide picked up the glass before him, Brent reached out swiftly and took it from his fingers. He looked into it for a second and tossed its contents onto the floor. "Better fill her up again," he said, "There was a fly in it." A fly on the Yukon, with the rivers still frozen, and the sodden snow three feet deep on the ground!Moosehide stared, and before Brent could move, Cuter Malone had floored him with a blow from a heavy bottle. The truth flashed upon Moosehide Charlie. One blow of his fist settled Claw, while with his other hand he reached across the bar and jerked a gun from the hand of Cuter Malone. The poker players rose from their chairs and started for the bar, but Moosehide motioned them back with the gun. "Jest go on with yer game, boys," he said meaningly. "Don't mind me." And as they settled into their places he stepped around the bar, keeping Malone covered. Kitty, who had been chatting with the girls on the opposite side of the room, darted across the floor and brushing past Moosehide, knelt beside Brent. "Jest raise up his head, girl, an' throw some water in his face," ordered Moosehide, "An' pour a little licker down his throat. If he can't swaller it, it'll make him gag an' bring him to." Then he turned to Malone: "An' you, you damn crook! You git busy an' weigh out what's comin' to him. An' weigh it damn quick—an' weigh it right. 'Cause if it ain't right, I'm a-comin' back here with about forty or ninety of my friends an' I'm tellin' it to you, we'll gut this damn joint—an' you along with it!"
Brent only partially revived under the water and choking whiskey, and between them they managed to get him out the door and onto Moosehide's sled. Then they hauled him to his cabin and put him to bed, where he lay for two weeks, delirious withfever, while Kitty stayed day and night at his side and nursed him. Another week passed, during which the girl came daily and cooked his meals, and made him get up for a little while each day while she aired and rearranged his blankets. At length came a day when he rose and dressed himself and stayed up till evening.
"You won't be needing me any more," said the girl, simply, as she stood in the doorway late in the afternoon. She pointed to two small buckskin sacks which she had laid upon the table. "There's your pay that was coming to you from Cuter Malone, and a sack that Moosehide Charlie left for you."
"Moosehide Charlie? He don't owe me anything."
"Says he owes you a whole lot, and he wanted me to give you that. He's gone off on a trip up Indian River."
Brent picked up the sack, which was a dozen times the weight of the other, and extended it toward the girl: "Give this back to him," he said shortly. "I don't need it."
Kitty did not take it: "You do too need it," she said, "How long will that pinch of dust last you? And what are you going to do when it's gone?"
"It don't make any difference what I do when it's gone. Whatever I do, I won't live on charity." And he tossed the sack past her through the doorway where it buried itself in the snow.
"You're a fool, Ace-In-The-Hole," she said, quietly, "Adamn fool."
The man nodded, slowly: "That's right, I reckon. Anyway we won't quarrel about it. Will you do me just one more favor?"
"What is it?"
"Take this dust and get me a bottle of hooch—a quart bottle—two of them."
"No, I won't!"
Brent rose to his feet: "I'll have to go myself, then," he said, as he cast his eyes about for his hat.
"You ain't able! You're weak as a cat, and you'd fall down in the snow."
"I'll get up again, then." He found the hat and put it on.
"I'll go," the words were hurled at him, and he handed her Cuter Malone's sack. "Never mind that—"
"Take it! Or I won't touch the hooch."
Reluctantly, she took it and in half an hour she was back and without a word deposited two quart bottles upon the table.
"Will you drink with me?" Brent asked, as he drew the cork.
"No! I'm going, now."
Brent rose to his feet and held out his hand: "Good bye, Kitty," he said, gravely. "I know what you've done for me—and I won't forget it. You'll come to see me—sometimes?"
"No. I hate you! An' if you could see yourselfthe way I see you—knowing what you are, and what you ought to be—you'd hate yourself!"
Brent flushed under the sting of the words: "I'm as good a man as I ever was," he muttered, defiantly.
The girl sneered: "You are—like hell! Why, you ain't even got a job—now. You're a bum! You hit the bump that I told you was at the end of your trail—now, where do you go from here?" And before Brent could reply she was gone.
"Where do I go from here?" he repeated slowly, as he sank into a chair beside his table, and swallowed a stiff drink of whiskey. And, "Where do I go from here?" he babbled meaninglessly, three hours later when, very drunk, his head settled slowly forward upon his folded arms, and he slept.
THE PLOTTING OF CAMILLO BILL
With the rapidly lengthening days the sodden snow thawed and was carried away by the creeks which were running waist-deep on top of the ice. New snow fell, lay dazzling white for a day or two, and then under the ever increasing heat of the sun, it, too, turned sodden, and sullen, and grey, and added its water to the ever increasing torrent of the creeks. Bare patches of ground showed upon south slopes. The ice in the creeks let go, and was borne down by the torrents in grinding, jamming floes. Then, the big river broke up. Wild geese and ducks appeared heading northward. Wild flowers in a riot of blazing color followed up the mountain sides upon the heels of the retreating snow-banks. And with bewildering swiftness, the Yukon country leaped from winter into summer.
From his little cabin Carter Brent noted the kaleidoscopic change of seasons, and promised himself that as soon as the creeks receded into their normal beds he would hit the gold trail. He atelittle, drank much, and spent most of his days in reading from some books left him by a wandering Englishman who had come in overland from the North-west territories, where for a year or more he had prowled aimlessly among the Hudson's Bay posts, and the outposts of the Mounted. The books were, for the most part, government reports, geological, and geodetical, upon the Canadian North.
"She said I am a bum," he muttered to himself one evening as he laid aside his book, and in the gathering darkness walked to the door and watched the last play of sunlight upon the distant glittering peaks. "But, I'll show her—I'll show her where I'll go from here. I'm as good a man as I ever was." This statement that he had at first made to others, he now found necessary to make to himself. A dozen times a day he would solemnly assure himself that he was as good a man as he ever was, and that when he got ready to hit the trail he would show them.
The sunlight faded from the peaks, and as he turned from the doorway, his eyes fell upon his pack straps that hung from their peg on the wall. Reaching for his hat, he stepped to the door and peered out to make sure that no one was watching. Then he stooped and fixed his straps to a half-sack of flour which he judged would weigh about fifty pounds. After some difficulty he got the pack onto his back and started for the bank of the river, a quarter ofa mile away. A hundred yards from the cabin he stopped for breath. His shoulders ached, and the muscles of his neck felt as though they were being torn from their moorings as he pushed his forehead against the tump-line. With the sweat starting from every pore he essayed a few more steps, stumbled, and in clumsily catching his balance, his hat fell off. As he stooped to recover it, the weight of the pack forced him down and down until he was flat on his belly with his face in the mud. For a long time he lay, panting, until the night-breeze chilled the sweat on his skin, and he shivered. Then he struggled to rise, gained his hands and knees and could get no farther. Again and again he tried to rise to his feet, but the weight of the pack held him down. He remembered that between the Chilkoot and Lake Lindermann he had risen out of the mud with a hundred pounds on his shoulders, and thought nothing of it. He wriggled from the straps and carrying, and resting, staggered back to his cabin and sank into a chair. He took a big drink and felt better. "It's the fever," he assured himself, "It left me weak. I'll be all right in a day or so. I'm as good a man as I ever was—only, a little out of practice."
After that Brent stayed closer than ever to his cabin until the day came when there was not enough dust left in his little buckskin sack to pay for a quart of hooch. He bought a pint, and as he drank it in his cabin, decided he must go to work, untilhe got strong enough to hit the trail. Houses were going up everywhere, houses of boards that were taking the place of the tents and the cabins of the previous year. Work there was a plenty, and the laborers were few.Chechakoswere pouring in by the thousands and staking clear to the mountain tops. But, none of them would work. Crazed by the lure of gold they pitted the hillsides and valleys and mucked like gnomes in their wild scramble for riches. Brent worked for a week in a sawmill, and then quit, bought some hooch and some necessary food, and retired to his cabin to reread his reports and laugh at the efforts of the hillside miners.
The old timers were scattered out in the hills, and the tin-horns andchechakoswho had worshiped at his shrine were dispersed, or had forgotten him. Life moved swiftly in the big camp. Yesterday's hero would be forgotten tomorrow. And the name of Ace-In-The-Hole meant nothing to the newcomers. Occasionally he met one of the old timers, who would buy him a drink, and hurry on about his business.
Spasmodically Brent worked at odd jobs. He fired a river steamboat on a round trip to Fort Gibbon. Always he promised himself pretty soon, now, he would be ready to hit the trail. Stampedes were of almost daily occurrence, but Brent was never in on them and so the summer wore on and still he had not hit the trail. "I'll just wait now, for snow," he decided late in August. "Then I'll geta good dog team together, and make a real rush. There's no use hitting out with a poling boat, the creeks are all staked, and back-packing is too hard work for a white man. I'm as good a man as I ever was, and when the snow comes I'll show them."
Brent's wardrobe was depleted until it consisted of a coarse blue jumper and ragged overalls drawn over underclothing, laced and tied together in a dozen places. He had not shaved for a month.
Later in October Camillo Bill came to his cabin. He stood in the doorway and stared into the dirty interior where Brent, with the unwashed dishes of his last meal shoved back, sat reading.
"Hello, Camillo," greeted the owner of the cabin as he rose to his feet and extended his hand, "Come in and sit down."
Camillo Bill settled himself into a chair: "Well I'll be damned!" he exclaimed under his breath.
Brent rinsed a couple of murky glasses in the water pail, and reached for a bottle that sat among the dirty dishes: "Have a drink," he invited, extending a glass to his visitor.
Camillo Bill poured a taste of liquor into the glass and watched Brent, with shaking hand, slop out a half a tumblerful, and drink it down as one would drink water. He swallowed the liquor and returned the glass to the table.
"Take some more," urged Brent, "I've got another quart under the bunk."
"No thanks," refused the other, curtly, "I heardyou was down an' out, but—by God, I wasn't lookin' for this!"
"What's the matter?" asked Brent, flushing beneath his stubby beard, "What do you mean?"
Righteous indignation blazed from Camillo Bill's eyes. "Mean! You know damn well what I mean!" he thundered. "Look around this shack! Look in the lookin' glass up there! You're livin' here worse'n a dog lives! You're worse'n a—a squaw-man!"
Brent rose to his feet, and drew himself proudly erect. Ragged and unshaven as he was, the effect was ludicrous, but Camillo Bill saw nothing of humour as he stared at the wreck of his friend. Brent spoke slowly, measuring his words: "No man—not even you can insult me and get away with it. I'm as good a man as I ever was, and I'll prove it if you'll step outside."
"You couldn't prove nothin' to nobody, noway. Kitty told me you'd gone to hell—but, I didn't know you'd gone on plumb through."
Brent sank weakly into his chair and began to whimper: "I'm as good a man as I ever was," he sniveled.
"Shut up!" Camillo Bill's fist struck the table, "It makes me mad to look at you! You're a hell of a lookin' object. You won't winter through. They'll find you froze some mornin' half ways between here an' some saloon."
"I won't be here when winter comes. I'mgoing to hit the trail when snow flies, with a dog outfit."
"Where do you aim to go?"
"Over beyond the Mackenzie. Over in the Coppermine River country. There's gold over there, and there aren't a millionchechakosgouging for it."
Camillo Bill roared with laughter: "Over beyond the Mackenzie! Picked you out the roughest an' the furtherest place to go there is. An' nuthin' there when you get there—only you'd never get there. You ain't got the strength nor the guts to cross Indian River—let alone the Mackenzie. An' besides, where do you aim to get your outfit?"
"I'll work in the sawmill till I get enough, or anyone will grub-stake me—you will."
"I will—like hell! An' no one else won't, neither. You'd never buy nothin' but hooch if they did."
A gleam of hope flashed into Brent's eyes: "Say," he asked, "How about my claims? You must have taken out your million by this time."
Camillo Bill smiled and his eyes never wavered as they met Brent's gaze: "Petered plumb out," he said, "That's what I come to tell you about. They ain't an ounce left in 'em."
"Did you get yours?" asked Brent dully. "If you didn't, just let me know how much you are shy, and I'll make it good—when I make my strike, over beyond the Mackenzie."
This time the other did not laugh. His fists clenched, and he muttered under his breath: "Allgone to hell—puffed an' bloated, an' rotten with hooch—an' still square as a brick school house!" For a long time he sat silent, staring at the floor.
Brent poured himself another drink: "How much are you shy?" he repeated.
The words roused Camillo Bill from a brown study: "Huh?" he asked.
"I said, how much are you shy of that million?"
"Oh, I don't know yet. I ain't cleaned up the tailin' of the dump. It ain't goin' to be so far off, though. I'll let you know later." He got up and crossed to the door. "So long," he said, and without waiting for Brent's adieu, struck out at a fast walk for Stoell's where he found old Bettles and Swiftwater Bill drinking at the bar with Moosehide Charlie, who was telling of a fresh strike on a nameless creek to the westward.
Camillo Bill motioned the three to a small table, and when they were seated he ordered the drinks: "We got a job to do," he announced, plunging straight into his subject, "An' we got to do it thorough."
"Meanin' which?" asked Bettles.
"Meanin' to kidnap a man, an' hide him out fer a year, an' make him work like hell every minute he ain't sleepin' or eatin'."
"That sounds like a hell of a contrack," opined Swiftwater Bill. "Who's goin' to keep him workin', an' what at, an' what for?"
"For the good of his soul," grinned Camillo,"The spark of a man's there yet—an' a damn good man. But if we all don't git down an' blow like hell the spark's goin' out."
"Clear as mulligan," grinned Moosehide Charlie.
Camillo Bill looked into the faces of his companions: "Anyone saw Ace-In-The-Hole, lately?" he asked.
Bettles shook his head, and Swiftwater Bill spoke up: "I seen him about a month ago—bought him a drink. He's on the toboggan."
Moosehide Charlie broke in: "I ain't seen him since spring when he saved me from gettin' doped in Cuter Malone's. Cuter floored him with a bottle an' Kitty an' I got him home an' she looked after him till he got better. I give her a sack of dust to give him, but he wouldn't take it—throw'd it out in the snow, an' Kitty dug it out an' brung it back. If you all is figgerin' on gettin' up a stake fer him, let me in I'll go as high as the next."
Camillo Bill shook his head: "Nothin' doin' on the stake stuff. He wouldn't take it, an' if he did it would be the worst thing we could do to him. He'd blow it all in fer hooch. I went over to his cabin just now to turn back his claims. I've took out my million, an' only worked one of 'em. An' it ain't worked half out. They must be two or three million in 'em yet. Kitty told me the hooch had got him right—but she didn't tell it strong enough. He's in a hell of a shape, an' thinks he's as good a man as he ever was. He's dirty, an' ragged, an'bloated with hooch an' broke—an' yet, by God—he's a man! When I seen how things was, I decided not to say anything about the claims because if he got holt of 'em now, he'd blow 'em in as fast as he could get out the dust. But, after a while he asked me, an' I told him they'd petered out. He never batted an eye, but he says, 'Did you get out your million? 'Cause,' he says, 'if you didn't just tell me how much you're shy, an' I'll make it good!' He thinks he's goin' somewhere over beyond the Mackenzie when the snow comes—but, hell—he ain't in no shape to go nowheres. What we got to do is jest na'chelly steal him, an' put him in a cabin somewheres way out in the hills, an' hire a couple of guards for him, an' keep him workin' for a whole damn year. It'll nearly kill him at first, but it'll put him back where he was, if it don't kill him—an' if it does, it's better to die workin' than to freeze to death drunk like McMann did."
"I got the place to put him," said Swiftwater, "The claim's no good, but it's way to hell an' gone from here, an' there's a cabin on it."
"Just the ticket," agreed Camillo.
"We better send out quite a bunch of hooch. So he can kind of taper off," suggested Moosehide Charlie.
"Taper—hell!" cried Bettles, "If you taper off, you taper on agin. I know. The way to quit is to quit."
"We'll figger that out," laughed Camillo, "Thebest way is to ask the doc. I'll tend to that, an' I'll get a guard hired, an' see about grub an' tools and stuff. We'll meet here a week from tonight an' pull the deal off, an' Swiftwater he can go along fer guide—only you don't want to let him see you. I'll get guards that he don't know, an' that don't know him. We'll have to pay 'em pretty good, but it's worth it."
Old Bettles nodded: "He was a damn good man, onct."
"An' he'll be agin'!" exclaimed Camillo, "If he lives through it. His heart's right."
And so they parted, little thinking that when they would gather for the carrying out of their scheme, Brent would have disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed him up.
SNOWDRIFT RETURNS TO THE BAND
As Snowdrift plodded mile after mile, in her flight from the mission, her brain busied itself with her problem, and the first night beside her little campfire she laid her plans for the future. In her heart was no bitterness against old Wananebish—only compassion that resolved itself into an intense loyalty and a determination to stay with her and to lighten the burden that the years were heaping upon her. For she knew of the old woman's intense love for her, and the hardships she willingly endured to keep her in school at the mission. The blame was the white man's blame—the blame of the man who was her father.
Her face burned hot and her eyes flashed as her hatred of white men grew upon her. Gladly would she have opened her veins and let out the last drop of white blood that coursed the length of them. At least she could renounce the white man's ways—his teachings, and his very language. From now on she was Indian—and yet, again came that fleeting, elusivememory—always, ever since she had been a little girl there had been thememory, and when it came she would close her eyes, and press her hands to her head and try and try in vain to grasp it—to bring the picture clean-cut to her mind. Then thememorywould fade away—but it would return again, in a month—a year—always it would return—a log cabin—wind-tossed waters—a beautiful white woman who held her close—a big man with a beard upon his face like McTavish, the factor. At first she had told Wananebish of thememory, but she had laughed and said that it was the wives of the different factors and traders at the posts who were wont to make much of the little girl when the band came to trade. The explanation never quite satisfied Snowdrift, but she accepted it for want of a better. Was it a flash of memory from another existence? There was the book she had borrowed from Father Ambrose, the peculiar book that she did not understand, and that Father Ambrose said he did not understand, and did not want to understand, for it was all about some heathenish doctrine. She wondered if it could not be possible that people lived over and over again, as the book said, and if so, why couldn't they remember? Maybe last time she had been a white girl, and this time she was a half-breed, and the next time she would be an Indian—she wouldn't wait till next time! She was an Indian now. She hated the white men.
And so it went as hour on hour she worked her plans for the future. She knew that Wananebish was getting old, that she was losing her grip on the band. Many of the older ones had died, and many of the younger ones had deserted, and those who were left were dissatisfied, and always grumbling. There were only eighteen or twenty of them all told, now, and they preferred to hang about along the rivers, trapping just enough fur to make a scanty living and pay for the hooch that the free-traders brought in. They were a degenerate lot and old Wananebish had grown weary in trying to get them back into the barrens where there was gold. They scoffed at the gold. There had been so little of it found in so many years of trying—yet she had not been able to get them to leave the vicinity of the river. But, now, to the river had come news of the great gold strike beyond the mountains to the westward. Snowdrift reasoned that if there were gold to the westward there would be gold also to the eastward, especially as Wananebish knew that it was there—had even found some of it long years ago. Maybe they would go, now—far back into the barrens, far, far away from Henri of the White Water.
Upon the fourth day after her departure from the mission, the girl walked into the camp of the little band of non-treaty Indians. Straight to the tepee of Wananebish, she went—to the only mother she had ever known. The old squaw received herwith open arms, and with much wondering, for upon her last visit to the mission the good Sister Mercedes had told her that Snowdrift would go and continue her studies at the great convent in the far away land of the white man. It was the thing she had most feared to hear, yet, by not so much as the flicker of an eyelash did she betray her soul-hurt. All the long years of deception, during which MacFarlane's note book had lain wrapped in its waterproof wrappings and jealously guarded in the bottom of the moss bag had gone for naught. For it was to guard against the girl's going to the land of the white man that the deception had been practiced. None but she knew that no drop of Indian blood coursed through the veins of the girl, and she knew that once firmly established among her own people she would never return to the North. At that time she had almost yielded to the impulse to tell the truth to them, and to spread the proofs before them—almost, but not quite, for as long as the girl believed herself to be half Indian there was a chance that she would return, and so the squaw had held her peace, and now here was the girl herself—here in the tepee, and she had brought her all her belongings. Wananebish plied her with questions, but the girl's answers were brief, and spoken in the Indian tongue, a thing that greatly surprised and troubled the old woman, for since babyhood, the girl had despised the speech of the Indians.
The two prepared supper in silence, and in silencethey ate it. And for a long time they sat close together and silent beside the mosquito smudge of punk and green twigs. The eyes of the old squaw closed and she crooned softly from pure joy, for here beside her was the only being in the world that she loved. Her own baby, the tiny red mite she had deposited that day upon the blanket in the far away post at Lashing Water, had died during that first winter. The crooning ceased abruptly, and the black, beady eyes flashed open. But why was she here? And for how long? She must know. Why did not the girl speak? The silence became unbearable even to this woman who all her life had been a creature of silence. Abruptly she asked the question: "Are you not going to the land of the white men?"
And quick as a flash came the answer in the Indian tongue: "I hate the white men!" The suppressed passion behind the words brought a low inarticulate cry to the lips of the squaw. She reached for the sheath knife at her belt, and the sinews upon the back of the hand that grasped it stood out like whip cords. The black eyes glittered like the eyes of a snake, and the lips curled back in a snarl of hate, so that the yellow fangs gleamed in the wavering light of a tiny flame that flared from the smouldering fire.
Words came in a hoarse croak: "Who is he? I will cut his heart out!"
Then the hand of the girl was laid soothinglyupon her arm, and again she spoke words in the Indian tongue: "No, no, not that."
The old squaw's muscles relaxed as she felt the arm of the girl steal about her shoulders. The knife slipped back into its sheath, as her body was drawn close against the girl's. For a long time they sat thus in silence, and then the girl rose, for she was very tired. At the door of the tepee she paused: "There are some good white men," she said, "Tell me again, was my father a good white man?"
Still seated beside the fire the old squaw nodded slowly, "A good white man—yes. He is dead."
The eyes of the girl sought with penetrating glance the face beside the fire. Was there veiled meaning in those last words? Snowdrift thought not, and entering the tepee she crept between her blankets.
When the sound of the girl's breathing told that she slept old Wananebish stole noiselessly into the tepee and, emerging a moment later with the old moss bag, she poked at the fire with a stick, and threw on some dry twigs, and seated herself in the light of the flickering flames. She thrust her hand into the bag and withdrew a packet from which she undid the wrappings. Minutes passed as she sat staring at the notebook of MacFarlane, and at the package of parchment deer-skin still secure in its original wrapping. For never had the squaw touched a dollar of the money left in her care forthe maintainance and education of the girl. Poor as she was Wananebish had kept Snowdrift in school, had clothed and fed her solely by her own efforts, by the fruits of her hunting and trapping. All during the years she had starved, and saved, and driven shrewd bargains that the girl might receive education, even as she herself had received education.
And, now, tonight, she knew that the girl had been suddenly made to realize that she was one of those born out of wedlock, and the shame of it was heavy upon her. The old woman's heart beat warm as she realized that the girl held no blame for her—only an intense hatred for the white men, one of whose race had wrought the supposed wrong.
For a long time Wananebish sat beside the fire her heart torn by conflicting emotions. She knew right from wrong. She had not the excuse of ignorance of the ethics of conduct, for she, too, had been an apt pupil at the mission school. And for nearly nineteen years she had been living a lie. And during those years right had struggled against love a thousand times—and always love had won—the savage, selfish love that bade her keep the object of her affections with her in the Northland. Upon the death of her baby soon after the visit of MacFarlane, her whole life centered upon the tiny white child. In the spring when the band moved, she had left false directions in the caribou skull beside the river, and instead of heading for Lashing Water to deliver the babe to old Molaire, she had headed northward, and upon the third day had come upon the remains of a sled, and a short distance farther on, a rifle, and a sheath knife—the same that now swung at her own belt, and which bore upon its inside surface, the legend "Murdo MacFarlane." A thousand times she had been upon the point of telling the girl of her parentage, and turning over to her the packet, but always the fear was upon her that she would forsake the North, and seek the land of her own people. Years before, when she had entered the girl at the mission, she had smothered the temptation to tell all, and to deliver the packet to the priest. But instead, she invented the story of her illegitimate birth and accepted the shame. She knew from the first that Sister Mercedes doubted the tale, that she believed the girl to be white, but she stoutly held to her story, nor deviated from it so much as a hair's breadth, during years of periodical questioning.
But now? What should she do now that the girl herself was suffering under the stigma of her birth? Should she tell her the truth and deliver to her the packet of her father? If she did would not the girl turn upon her with hatred, even as she had turned against the people of her own race? Should she remain silent, still living the lie she had lived all these years, and thus keep at her side the girl she loved with the savage mother love of a wild beast? Was it not the girl's right to knowwho she was, and if she so willed, to go among her own people, and to go among them with unsullied name? Clearly this was her right. Wananebish admitted the right, and the admission strengthened her purpose. Slowly she rose from the fire and with the packet and the notebook in her hand, stepped to the door of the tepee and stood listening to the breathing of the sleeping girl. She would slip the packet beneath the blankets, and then—and then—she, herself would go away—and stay until the girl had gone out of the North. Then she would come back to her people. Her eyes swept the group of tepees that showed dimly in the starlight—back to her people! A great wave of revulsion and self-pity swept over her as she saw herself, old and unheeded, working desperately for the betterment of the little band of degenerates, waging almost single handed the losing battle against the whiskey runners. Suddenly she straightened, and the hand clutched tightly the packet. If Snowdrift stayed, might not the band yet be saved? What is it the white men say when they seek excuse for their misdeeds? Ah, yes, it is that the end justifies the means. As she repeated the old sophistry a gleam of hope lighted her eyes and she returned again to the fire. At least, the girl would remain at her side, and would care for her in her old age—only a few more years, and then she would die, and after that— Carefully she rewrapped the packet and returned it to the moss bag.As always before the savage primal love triumphed over the ethics, and with a great weight lifted from her mind, the old squaw sought her blankets.
Heart and soul, during the remaining days of the summer, Snowdrift threw herself into the work of regenerating the little band of Indians. News of the great gold strike on the Yukon had reached the Mackenzie and these rumors the girl used to the utmost in her arguments in favor of a journey into the barrens. At first her efforts met with little encouragement, but her enthusiasm for the venture never lagged and gradually the opposition weakened before the persistence of her onslaughts.
When the brigade passed northward, Henri of the White Water had promised the Indians he would return with hooch, and it was in anticipation of this that the young men of the band were holding back. When, in August, word drifted up the river that a patrol of the mounted from Fort Simpson had come upon a certaincache, and that Henri of the White Water was even then southward bound under escort, the last of the opposition vanished. Without hooch one place was as good as another and if they should find gold—why they could return and buy much hooch, from some other whiskey runner. But, they asked, how about debt? Already they were in debt to the company, and until the debt was paid they could expect nothing, and a long trip into the barrens would call for much in the way of supplies.
McTavish, the bearded trader at Fort Good Hope, listened patiently until the girl finished her recital, and then his thick fingers toyed with the heavy inkstand upon his desk.
"I do' no' what to say, to ye, lass," he began, "The Company holds me to account for the debt I give, an' half the band is already in my debt. Ye're mither, auld Wananebish is gude for all she wants an' so are you, for ye're a gud lass. Some of the others are gud too, but theer be some amongst them that I wad na trust for the worth of a buckshot. They've laid around the river too lang. They're a worthless, hooch-guzzlin' outfit. They're na gude."
"But that's just why I want debt," cried the girl, "To get them away from the river. There's no hooch here now, and they will go. I, myself, will stand responsible for the debt."
The Scotchman regarded the eager face gravely: "Wheer wad ye tak them?" he asked.
"Way to the eastward, beyond Bear Lake, there is a river. The trapping is good there, and there is gold——"
"The Coppermine," interrupted McTavish, "Always theer has been talk of gold on the Coppermine—but na gold has been found theer. However, as ye say, the trappin' should be gude. Yer Injuns be na gude along the river. They're lazy an' no account, an' gettin' worse. Theer's a bare chance ye can save 'em yet if ye can get 'em far into thebarrens. I'm goin' to give ye that chance. If ye'll guarantee the debt, I'll outfit 'em—no finery an' frippery, mind ye—just the necessities for the winter in the bush. Bring 'em along, lass, an' the sooner ye get started the better, for 'tis a lang trail ye've set yerself—an' may gude luck go with ye."
And so it was that upon the first day of September, the little band of Indians under the leadership of Snowdrift and Wananebish, loaded their goods into canoes and began the laborious ascent of Hare Indian River.