Читать книгу When the Wilderness Calls – Bertrand W. Sinclair Collection - Bertrand William Sinclair - Страница 40

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Montell himself, burdened with a troubled air, met us at the gate of the stockade.

“Well, you’re back, eh?” he greeted Barreau. “I been wishin’ you’d show up. At the same time I’d just as soon you’d stay away. Now, don’t get huffy, George. You ain’t got any idee what I’ve had to contend with. Jessie’s here.”

Barreau looked at him with unchanging expression.

“Well,” he observed presently, “what of it?”

“What of it?” Montell echoed. “Jehosophat! Ain’t you got no imagination, George? That MacLeod deal has turned her against you somethin’ terrible. She heard all that stuff about you, an’ wouldn’t rest till she made sure ’twas really you. She’d raise old Ned if——”

“She found out that her highly respectable parent was associated in business with a notorious character like Slowfoot George,” Barreau cut in sneeringly. “You’re rather transparent, Montell. You don’t need to beat about the bush with me. I know what you are driving at. I’ve lost caste with her, which suits you exactly. You are her affectionate father, an honorable, clean-handed man. Hence you will not touch pitch lest she deem you defiled. Very good. But you had better take a hint from me and bestir yourself to get her south of the Peace before winter breaks. This is no place for a woman.”

“Sure, sure,” Montell seemed no whit taken aback, “that’s what I been aimin’ to do. I don’t know what the mischief got into her to come up here, anyhow. She was supposed to turn back the next day after we left MacLeod—I told you that the night you come to our camp, but you was too blame busy abusin’ me to listen, I guess. Then she stood me off another day or two. By that time I couldn’t leave the outfit, and she wouldn’t go back unless I did. Darn it, Jessie’s gettin’ to be too many for me. She’s stubborn as a mule an’ got a temper like—like—well, when she gets on the fight I got to stand from under, that’s all. There’ll be war if she finds out you’re the big chief here. Say, George, can’t you play like you just happened in?”

“No,” Barreau refused flatly. “I will not lie to her if both our necks depended on it. For that matter, the explanation is simple. Why not tell her the truth yourself?”

Montell looked at him curiously. Of a sudden the set of his heavy, florid face seemed to become a trifle defiant, aggressive.

“There’s no use standin’ here arguin’,” he said shortly. “Come on to the store. Let’s get an understandin’ of this thing.”

He led the way. Within, as well as without, the rebuilt storehouse was transformed. A great clutter of goods in bales and sacks and small boxes filled it nearly to overflowing. Shelves lined the walls. On each side a rude counter ran the length of the building. Here and there a semblance of orderly arrangement was beginning to show. A fire crackled on the open hearth at one end. An upended box, littered with bills of merchandise and a ledger or two, stood against the wall. By this rude desk Montell sat him down on a stool. He turned a look of inquiry on me, but Barreau forestalled his question.

“This is Bob Sumner,” he made known perfunctorily. “The son of that Texas cattleman who owned the Toreante place on Rose Hill. I believe you knew him slightly. Sumner will winter with us. You need not stutter over talking before him.”

“I don’t stutter over talkin’ before anybody, far as I’m concerned. It’s your funeral,” Montell retorted. Then he turned to me.

“So you’re John Sumner’s boy, eh?” He sized me up with new interest. I dare say he was wondering how I came to be in Barreau’s company on the very night of his breaking jail. “Yes, sir, I did know your father. Did business with him a time or two. Mighty fine man. Seems to me I heard he died last spring. Left quite a large estate, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” I answered briefly to both questions. It was not a subject I cared to discuss just then.

“Too bad, too bad,” he commiserated—but whether the sympathy he forced into his tone was for the death of my father, or for me, I did not know—nor care very much. It sounded like one of those convenient platitudes that become a habit with people. He focused his attention on Barreau, however, immediately after this.

“Now, George,” he said, “suppose we have a word in private, eh?”

“This suits me; I’m getting hardened to publicity,” Barreau drawled. “You want an understanding, you said. I’m agreeable. I remarked that it might be well to try telling the truth if explanations are demanded.”

An exasperated expression crossed Montell’s face.

“Now, see here, be reasonable,” he grunted. “That there guardhouse business settled you. If you’d kept shy of that, there’d be a chance. But there ain’t. You could swear to things on a stack of Bibles—and she wouldn’t believe a word. You know as well as I do that she’s got all them old-fashioned idees about a gentleman’s honor that her mother’s folks has. You know you did kill them two fellers on High River, an’ run off them Hudson’s Bay work-bulls. You didn’t have to do that. You can’t explain them things to her; nor bein’ in jail. That there’s a black mark she can’t overlook. You wasn’t smooth enough, George.”

“You are astonishingly frank, I must say.” Barreau leaned forward, smiling sardonically, a sneering, unpleasant smile. “Why? Would you mind explaining why you would refuse to vouch for the truth of my story if I tell her absolute facts? What have you up your sleeve?”

“Nothin’,” Montell growled. “Only I ain’t goin’ to have you force my hand. I ain’t goin’ to get into no fuss with my own daughter. Besides, as I said, some of them things can’t be explained to her—she couldn’t understand. Once she found out what a hell of a time’s been goin’ on in this fur business, and that this winter’s liable to breed more trouble, why she’d be sure to take a notion to stick here by me. An’ I won’t expose her to whatever might come up, for nobody’s reputation.”

“Wise old owl!” Barreau sneered. “What need for this sudden access of caution? Do you think I can’t——”

He broke off short at the slam of a door on the farther side of the storehouse. A feminine voice called, “Oh, papa!”

Montell sprang to his feet, muttering an expletive to himself, but he did not at once reply. In the stillness the sound of light footfalls threading the maze of piled goods echoed softly among the heavy beams above. It was dusk outside by then, and within that scantily windowed place it was quite dark, beyond a red circle cast from the open fireplace. And as the girl stepped into the edge of its glow Montell struck a match and touched it to a three-pronged candlestick on the box by his seat. She stifled an exclamation at sight of us. Then, with a scornful twist to her dainty mouth, she bowed in mock courtesy.

“Gentlemen,” she murmured, an ironic emphasis on the term, “your presence is unexpected. I cannot say I esteem it an honor.”

Then she turned to her father.

“Papa,” she observed interrogatively, “I have always known you were a hospitable soul, but I never dreamed a house of yours would ever prove shelter for an outlawed cutthroat. Upon my word, if I were a man I should be tempted to collect the bounty on this human wolf. There is a bounty. See?”

She fumbled in a pocket of the short, fur-edged jacket she wore, and presently drew forth a folded paper.

“Yes, surely there is a bounty,” she went on maliciously, holding the paper broadside to the sputtering candles. “Not a great one, to be sure, but more than he is worth. Five hundred dollars for the body, dead or alive, of George Brown, alias Slowfoot George. Height, weight, color of eyes, certain marks and scars—to a dot. Also an appalling list of crimes. Have you no shred or atom of a decent impulse left”—she addressed Barreau directly, her tone level, stingingly contemptuous—“that you persist in thrusting yourself upon people after they have seen the sheep’s clothing stripped from your degenerate shoulders?”

Barreau met her gaze squarely and answered her in her own tone.

“I am here,” he said, “because I choose to be here. Montell pere can tell you why.”

“Now, now Jessie,” Montell cut in pacifically. “This ain’t St. Louis. If George is in trouble, I don’t know as any one has a better right to help him than me. You don’t want to be always ridin’ that high hoss of yours. This country ain’t peopled with little tin gods, as I’ve told you many a time. You’d better go back to the house. I’ll be there pretty quick.”

“Indeed, I imagine I could hardly be in worse company,” she declared. “So I will quit it, forthwith. It was not of my seeking. Better keep an eye on your goods, papa.”

With that she was gone, leaving the three of us staring at each other, Montell a bit apprehensive, it seemed to me. Barreau was first to find his voice.

“I would advise you to get your trail outfit in readiness to-night,” he told Montell bluntly, “and start south in the morning. Otherwise I will give no guarantee of peace and good will in this camp. I can’t stand much of that sort of thing.”

Montell seemed to consider this. If he felt any uneasiness over the implied threat he maintained an undisturbed front. Hunched on the stool like a great toad, one fat hand on each knee, his puffy eyelids blinking with automatic regularity, he regarded Barreau in thoughtful silence.

“I guess that’s the proper card,” he uttered at last. “I can make it back, all right, if it does come bad weather. I got to get her home, that’s sure. You can kinda keep out of sight till we get started, can’t you, George?”

“That’s as it happens,” Barreau returned indifferently. “Meantime, have you grub-staked any of these hunters? Are the Indians beginning to come in?”

Montell nodded. “Quite a few. Two or three camps up the river, the boys say. Some of ’em wouldn’t make no deal till you showed up. Don’t you let none of ’em have too big a debt, George.”

Barreau shrugged his shoulders at this last caution. He sat staring into the fire, his lean, dark face touched with its red glow. Then abruptly he got up and opened the door.

“It’s dark, Bob,” he said to me. “Let us go to the cabin.” And without another word to Montell he left the store, I following.

It was just dark enough so that we could distinguish the outline of the post buildings, and the black, surrounding wall of the stockade. The burned stable had been rebuilt during our absence. Within it horses sneezed and coughed over their fodder. On the flat beyond the post I could hear the night-herder whistle as he rode around the grazing mules. From this window and that, lights shone mistily through the scraped-and-dried deer-skin that served for glass. And at the far end of the stockade a group of men chattered noisily about a roaring fire. Yet the lights and sounds, the buildings of men and the men themselves seemed inconsequential, insignificant, proportioned to their surroundings like the cheeping of a small frog at the bottom of a deep well. The close-wrapping wilderness, with its atmosphere of inexorable solitude, enfolded us with silence infinitely more disturbing than any clamor. It may have been my mood, that night, but it seemed a drear and lonely land; the bigness of the North, its power, the implacable, elemental forces, had never taken definite form before. Now, all at once, I saw them, and I did not like the sight.

We did not make our way straight to the cabin. Barreau had no mind to go hungry. He stopped at the mess-house and bade the cook send our supper to us, when it was ready. Then we went to the cabin, flung our lean packs in a corner, built a fire, and sat by it smoking till a voluble Frenchman brought the warm food.

Again Barreau had fallen into wordless brooding. For the hour or more that passed after we had eaten he lay on his bed staring at the pole-and-dirt roof. He was still stretched thus, an unlighted cigarette between his lips, when I took off my clothes and laid me down to sleep. And when at daybreak I wakened and sat up sleepily, Barreau’s bedding was neatly smoothed out on the bunk. His smoking material, which had lain on the table, was gone; likewise his rifle, cartridge-belt, and the pack-rigging he had cast aside the evening before. It seemed that Mr. Barreau must have gone a-journeying.

I opened the door and looked about me. Here and there men busied themselves at sundry occupations. The sun had but cleared the tree-tops, and on flat and hillsides deep black shadows still nestled. My roving eyes finally settled on one of these blots of shade, and presently I saw four figures, mounted, two of them leading extra horses, ascending the south bank. Looking more closely I observed that one was a woman. Mr. Montell, I decided, was taking time by the forelock. I stood with hands jammed in my trousers pockets, wishing that I, too, were homeward bound, wondering if Bolton had got either of my letters, and if he had made any attempt to trace me—and a lot of other footless speculation.