CHAPTER IIIELEVEN YEARS LATER
ANNETTE was standing on the river bank. She was intensely preoccupied. Her willow rod swung up. It whistled through the hot summer air. Then her homemade fly struck the calm surface of the shady pool with a lightness, a dexterity, that displayed her child’s skill.
Her dark eyes were alight. There was eagerness in the pose of her tall, angular body. Her pretty lips were parted, and her breath came quickly. She was very happy.
The boy was watching from beneath the visor of the old cloth cap he had inherited from Pideau. He, too, had all the enthusiasm of a keen fisherman. But he was not fishing. He was squatting on the sun-dried grass of the river bank cleaning his rifle, the breech of which was dismantled, with its parts spread out on a grease rag on the ground beside him.
Two lean husky dogs were at the water’s edge near by. They were great creatures of the trail. But they were also hunting dogs, trained to an efficiency which only the limitless patience of the boy could have achieved. They were searching the distance with eager eyes. Their long muzzles were pointing at a far distant forest line beyond the river. And their bodies were a-quiver with that canine excitement which finds expression so readily.
Farther back from the river, where the haylike grass was abundant, a pinto pony was tethered, grazing. He was without saddle or bridle. He wore only an old rope head collar and the tether by which he was secured.
The valley was bathed in blazing sunshine which told of the summer’s height. Forest, grass, and shrub were ripe with the maturity of the season. The silence and solitude of the mountain world were profound.
The girl cast, and recast again. Then of a sudden her whole body stiffened. And a sharp little ejaculation broke from her. The boy watched the play. And as he waited, the whimper of his dogs broke into a howl that sounded full of mourning in the silence of the valley.
Annette struck sharply. In a moment there was a flash of wriggling silver in the sunshine. Then a large fish lay flapping on the grass, and the girl was on her knees with her strong, brown fingers busy salving her precious fly.
“Say, you!” she cried, flinging the words back over her angular shoulder. “Send your crazy dogs to home. They’re spoilin’ things. I hate ’em.”
The boy smiled. He made no attempt to obey. He turned to gaze at the creatures that had angered Annette.
They were standing in an attitude of savage threat. Their manes were bristling. The howl had given way to ferocious deep-throated snarls at a direction where the river lost itself in the dark forests to the northeast.
Annette stood up from her task of readjusting her fly. She had flung her capture amongst the round dozenof already stiffening fish that were lying on the grass. Her angry eyes watched the offending dogs.
She was tall for her twelve years; tall and lathlike. Her limbs were thin, and brown, and shapeless. Clad in a brief skirt that barely covered her bony knees, and in a dark worsted jersey, that seemed to flatten her body the more surely, there was little enough of the beauty of figure that might develop later.
It was different, however, with her dusky face, and the mass of raven-black hair that fell below her shoulders. Her hair was wonderful in its untrained profusion. And her face was already showing signs of a beauty that was almost classical. Her eyes were profoundly expressive of emotions that rarely knew discipline. Her whole expression was full of infinite possibilities. Certainly the half-breed was dominant in her, with all its potentialities for mischief.
The eleven years that had passed since an exhausted Luana had arrived at the door of Pideau Estevan’s dugout had brought little outward change in the half-breed’s mountain hiding, except for the development of Annette, and the boy the woman had brought with her.
The dugout showed no signs of the passage of years, or of the devastating mountain storms. For the rest the valley still served its purpose. The hills, the forests, the rivers, they were all as unchanging as the glacial fields and eternal snows that crowned the lofty summits where earth and sky met.
The unseen changes, however, were in the progress of Pideau’s fortunes. His illicit trade had gone on without interruption. He had bled the harassed settlers on the far eastern plains without mercy or scruple.And it was the smallness of his thefts which had assured his long success.
He never stole cattle in bulk. His thefts looked mean and small. But by a process of raiding in twos and threes, and never more than six head of cattle at a time, he had built up a herd which yielded him ample profit across the United States border to the south of him.
Pideau’s avaricious soul was comparatively satisfied. His fortune was growing and had already opened out pleasing visions of the future. But his astute mind was never resting, and he realized that his immunity from consequences could not continue indefinitely.
From across the southern border something more than rumor had reached him. The Americans down south were talking Prohibition. They were not only talking of it, they were moving on towards it in that thorough fashion in which they did most things. Well, Prohibition had served him more than well at different times in the Western Territories of Canada. It would be a poor bet if he could not turn this new trend of American politics to good account for himself. So, as he saw the end of his present traffic approaching, he was well enough satisfied.
His sister Luana had served her purpose. She had raised Annette for him with the boy he had long since dubbed “the Wolf.” She had done her best. She had taught them both to read, and write, and to figure simple sums, to the limit of her own stock of education. Then she had taught them to work, which was what Pideau most desired. The only thing that had offended him had been her partiality for the Wolf. But eventhat, he had been able to counter-balance in his own cruel way.
But the boy was approaching manhood now. He had outgrown Luana’s care, while Annette was still of an age to come under her controlling hand, which was often enough unsparing.
These things, however, were of no real concern to the boy and girl. They were inseparable playmates and had little enough thought for Pideau’s affairs. Besides Pideau was away on his trade. And Luana was sick—very sick with mountain fever.
Annette turned at last from the dogs to the boy.
“I said you’re to send ’em to home—you Wolf!” she cried, with that imperiousness which her sex and age seemed to justify. Then she became more vehement and her voice shrilled. “They’re curs, anyway. They ain’t dogs. Only curs.” Then as the boy’s eyes smiled with deeper derision she became still more furious. She stamped her bare brown foot on the grass. “So’re you!” she screamed at him. “Send ’em right back, or—or I’ll tell Pideau when he gets back to home, an’—an’ he’ll rawhide you for not letting me fish right.”
The Wolf glanced unconcernedly at the whimpering dogs.
“You got plenty fish. Wot’s worryin’ you?”
He snapped the breech of his rifle into place, and gathered up his tools and crammed them into the pockets of his breeches and stood up.
He was tall. The Wolf had developed far beyond his fourteen years. He was already taller than Pideau. But that which was far less usual was the fact that hisphysical strength had more than kept pace with his growth. He was lean, rawboned, and possessed of the activity of a wildcat. He was keen of mind and nimble-witted, and he possessed that which was denied to all his half-breed companions. His humor was the happiest thing imaginable.
For all that, however, he was as full of the spirit of the wilderness as the mountain world could breed him.
The Wolf’s indifference maddened Annette. But suddenly she smiled in a manner that should have warned him. Her whole attitude changed with her sly smile, and her tone was full of guile.
“You know why they howl—those curs?” she asked quietly.
“Wolves.”
Annette shook her head.
“No. Luana. She’s dyin’. Anyone knows curs howl when folks are dyin’. Pideau says so.”
The reality of the Wolf’s smile fell from him. But Nature had designed something like a perpetual smile in the fashioning of his eyes. He was staring at his playmate with trouble grievously shadowing his happy face.
“I tell you it’s wolves,” he cried, with sudden vehemence. “They’re yonder. They’re in the woods. I know. Luana ain’t dyin’. She’s—she’s getting better, sure. She said so. You’re talkin’ foolish. Guess maybe you want her to die.”
Annette wanted to hurt, and knew she had succeeded. She loved to hurt the Wolf at any time. It was her way to plague the boy. She was as ready to torment as to fight him with hands and teeth.
Usually the Wolf was satisfied and only laughed at her. Annette was Annette, the whole joy of his budding manhood. He worshipped the little whirlwind fury. But now, under the girl’s lash, he was only a boy, and one who loved the woman who had raised him with a boundless affection.
“Maybe I do,” Annette admitted. “I hate her. She beats me when Pideau’s not around. When he’s away she makes me work while she sits around with you, an’ acts foolish. It’s all you—you! I’ll be glad when she’s dead. She’s got mountain fever. Pideau said so. Same as my mother did. An’ she’s goin’ to die, too. What’ll you do when she’s buried so the wolves can’t eat her fool body? Guess Pideau’ll fix you.”
But the Wolf’s bad moment had passed. He understood. It was just Annette. So he grinned.
“I’m not scared any,” he said, making a sound with his lips that brought the dogs to his caressing hand. “I’m as big as Pideau, an’ he can’t rawhide me. He wouldn’t anyway. Maybe he daren’t. I can shoot as quick as Pideau. He can’t worry me a thing—now.”
Annette stared. To her childish mind the boy’s spoken defiance of her father was something almost terrible. She knew Pideau’s temper. She knew something of his cruelty. She knew he had no love for her white playmate, and had often seen him lay the rawhide on his bare shoulders.
She glanced back up at the dugout as though she feared Pideau might be there to hear the boy’s defiance. Then she pointed at the youth with a thin, brown finger.
“You’re crazy,” she said, in a low tone. “Pideau could just—kill you.”
The Wolf only shook his head and smiled.
“Maybe it’s you that’s crazy. Who hunts pelts for Pideau? Who gets meat fer him to eat? Who rebrands his stolen cows, an’ herds ’em? Pideau’s no fool, kid. He hates me. But he needs me. An’ he knows I can shoot quick an’ straight. Soon I’ll be a man. Then you’ll see.”
The dogs had gone back to the river bank, and Annette was watching them again. She felt that the Wolf had got the best of the talk, and her wicked mind was searching for fresh mischief.
“He said Luana’d die,” she declared, returning to the thing she knew was a sure hurt.
But the Wolf refused to be drawn again. He shrugged.
“I don’t care what Pideau says. He’s a liar, anyway. And a thief, too! He’s thinkin’ of quittin’.”
Annette forgot the dogs. She forgot her fishing. She dropped the line she was holding, and, with it, the fly she treasured. She eyed the boy for a thoughtful moment. Then:
“Who’s the liar now?” she cried, but with a quick look of doubt flashing in her big eyes.
“Only Pideau,” the Wolf grinned.
Annette turned away to the distance. She was disturbed. Her child’s mind knew only the mountains. They were her whole world. She was part of them. And the thought of quitting her beloved playground was devastating.
“Pideau wouldn’t quit,” she argued. “He’s safehere. He’s doing swell. He said so. Why’d he quit, anyway?”
“Cos he’s scairt. He reckons the p’lice’ll get him soon. They’re hot on his trail. He figgers they’ll get his tracks in a while, an’ then——”
The Wolf broke off with a look of profound meaning, and the girl was impressed. But her fear passed as she considered the source of her information. Her scorn leaped again.
“Guess you like to think Pideau’ll get trailed by the p’lice,” she sneered. “Maybe you’d set them wise. It was a bad day Luana brought you. You’d be dead, starved, if it wasn’t for Pideau. Yet you hate him. You’re a skunk. A cur like—like them,” she flung at him, nodding at his howling dogs. “You ken shoot quicker than Pideau! Psha! I tell you Pideau’ll beat the life out of you when he comes, an’ I tell him the things you said.”
“He won’t.”
The Wolf shook his head.
“You can tell him all you want,” he went on. “I don’t care. Pideau’s quittin’. He’ll make you quit with him. If I fancy I’ll stop around. I ken make as good as Pideau right here. Maybe you’ll have to go live in some dirty town, where you can’t fish, an’ you ain’t got a pony to ride. Maybe——”
“I won’t go!”
The girl’s voice had something in it that was not all anger. There were tears of real grief behind her hot denial.
“You’ll have to—’less——”
“’Less what?”
The Wolf had become seriously thoughtful.
“Pideau reckons the furs I took last winter gave him more’n five hundred dollars,” he said meaningly. “That’s a deal of money. It ’ud have been more—a lot more—only I cached haf my catch. I got ’em ’way off in the forest. I ken make big money. An’ I don’t need to steal.”
“You hid ’em from Pideau? That’s talk. Fool talk,” Annette cried.
“’Tain’t. I’m a swell hunter. I ken get foxes all the time. That’s why I don’t worry with Pideau. You want to stop around when Pideau quits?”
Annette’s eyes widened. And the Wolf saw the thing he desired as she mutely nodded her answer.
The boy straightened himself up. His fine eyes were shining.
“You ken if you feel that way. An’ I’d be glad to have you around. I’ll be a man soon. An’ you’ll be a grown woman. When Pideau quits we can make a big getaway into the forests so he can’t locate us. We can marry then. An’ I’ll hunt pelts, an’ make big money, an’ you can stop around an’ fish trout. It ’ud be swell. An’ we’d be quit of Pideau, who’s a thief.”
The boy was serious. Deadly serious. And Annette eyed him curiously. Then of a sudden she began to laugh. The boy’s cheeks flamed with sudden anger.
“Oh, you great, big, swell hunter!” Annette cried maddeningly. “Oh, you brave fool man! You! You! Say, Wolf, you beat it an’ hunt gophers, an’ leave me to my fishing. You take your curs with you, and the gun you can shoot so good with. Marry you? Why, I hate you, you fool kid.”
She turned and picked up her rod, and the Wolf heard it whistle through the air. Then, out of his hot anger, he did the thing she had ordered. He shouldered his rifle and flung his answer back at her as he went.
“Hate all you reckon to, Annette,” he cried, as he made towards the tethered pony, with his dogs leaping about his moccasined heels. “It won’t help you. You’ll marry me, sure. I fixed that. See?”
He grinned back at her, his anger swept away by that humor that was never long at fault. Then he added:
“Guess I’ll get after them wolves so you’ll know it ain’t Luana dyin’.”
Annette forgot her fly, and the trout rising at it. She craned round, her face flaming.
“Look at him. Great big hunter!” she jeered after him, as he vaulted to the bare back of his pinto and set off at a run.
Left alone, however, Annette found no further interest in her fishing. Her sport only appealed as long as it was shared with the Wolf. It was the same with everything in her life. She would not have admitted it even to herself. On the contrary, she told herself fiercely that she hated her playmate worse, much worse than she hated the dying Luana. She never wanted to see him again. She hoped his pinto would fall in a gopher hole and kill the Wolf. She wished him every harm her vicious mind could think of. And she swore to herself that she would tell Pideau everything he had said.
For all that, however, it was with a quick sigh shequit her fishing, and reeled in her line, and detached her precious fly and stuck it in the worsted of her clothing. Then, after bending over her fish, and gathering them up, and stringing them together, it was with a desperate inclination to tears that she faced the hill for her dugout home and her dying foster mother.
She told herself again and again of the hate with which the Wolf inspired her. But long before the door of the dingy dugout was reached she was thrilling with the vision of the mountain life in the woods, alone with the boy, as the Wolf had promised it to her.