Читать книгу In the Brooding Wild - Cullum Ridgwell - Страница 4

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The stormy day was followed by an equally stormy night. Inside the dugout it was possible, in a measure, to forget the terrors of the blizzard raging outside. The glowing stove threw out its comforting warmth, and even the rank yellow light of the small oil lamp, which was suspended from one of the rafters, gave a cheering suggestion of comfort to the rough interior. Besides, there were within food and shelter and human association, and the mind of man is easily soothed into a feeling of security by such surroundings.

The trappers had brought the rescued trader to the shelter of their humble abode; they had refreshed him with warmth and good food; they had given him the comfort of a share of their blankets, the use of their tobacco, all the hospitality they knew how to bestow.

The three men were ranged round the room in various attitudes of repose. All were smoking heavily. On the top of the stove stood a tin billy full to the brim of steaming coffee, the scent of which, blending with the reek of strong tobacco, came soothingly to their nostrils.

Victor Gagnon was lying full length upon a pile of outspread blankets. His face was turned towards the stove, and his head was supported upon one hand. He looked none the worse for his adventure in the storm. He was a small, dark man of the superior French half-breed class. He had a narrow, ferret face which was quite good looking in a mean small way. He was clean shaven, and wore his straight black hair rather long. His clothes, now he had discarded his furs, showed to be of orthodox type, and quite unlike those of his hosts. He was a trader who kept a store away to the northeast of the dugout. He worked in connection with one of the big fur companies of the East, as an agent for the wholesale house dealing directly with trappers and Indians.

This was the man with whom the Westleys traded, and they were truly glad that chance had put it in their power to befriend him. Their associations with him, although chiefly of a business nature, were decidedly friendly.

Now they were listening to his slow, quiet, thoughtful talk. He was a man who liked talking, but he always contrived that his audience should be those who gave information. These two backwoodsmen, simple as the virgin forests to which they belonged, were not keen enough to observe this. Victor Gagnon understood such men well. His life had been made up of dealings with the mountain world and those who peopled it.

Nick, large and picturesque, sat tailor-fashion on his blankets, facing the glowing stove with the unblinking, thoughtful stare of a large dog. Ralph was less luxurious. He was propped upon his upturned bucket, near enough to the fire to dispense the coffee without rising from his seat.

“Yup. It’s a long trail for a man to make travellin’ light an’ on his lone,” Victor was saying, while his black eyes flashed swiftly upon his companions. “It’s not a summer picnic, I guess. Maybe you’re wonderin’ what I come for.”

He ceased speaking as a heavy blast shook the roof, and set the lamp swinging dangerously.

“We’re good an’ pleased to see you–” began Ralph, in his deliberate way; but Victor broke in upon him at once.

“O’ course you are. It’s like you an’ Nick there to feel that way. But human natur’s human natur’, an’ maybe som’eres you are jest wonderin’ what brought me along. Anyway, I come with a red-hot purpose. Gee! but it’s blowin’. I ain’t like to forget this storm.” Gagnon shuddered as he thought of his narrow escape.

“Say,” he went on, with an effort at playfulness. “You two boys are pretty deep–pretty deep.” He repeated himself reflectively. “An’ you seem so easy and free, too. I do allow I’d never ’a’ thought it. Ha, ha!”

He turned a smiling face upon his two friends and looked quizzically from one to the other. His look was open, but behind it shone something else. There was a hungriness in his sharp, black eyes which would have been observed by any one other than these two backwoodsmen.

“You allus was a bit fancy in your way o’ speakin’, Victor,” observed Nick, responding to the man’s grin. “Hit the main trail, man. We ain’t good at guessin’.”

Ralph had looked steadily at the trader while he was speaking; now he turned slowly and poured out three pannikins of coffee. During the operation he turned his visitor’s words over in his mind and something of their meaning came to him. He passed a tin to each of the others and sipped meditatively from his own, while his eyes became fixed upon the face of the half-breed.

“Ther’ was some fine pelts in that last parcel o’ furs you brought along,” continued Victor. “Three black foxes. But your skins is always the best I get.”

Ralph nodded over his coffee, whilst he added his other hand to the support of the tin. Nick watched his brother a little anxiously. He, too, felt uneasy.

“It’s cur’us that you git more o’ them black pelts around here than anybody else higher up north. You’re a sight better hunters than any durned neche on the Peace River. An’ them hides is worth more’n five times their weight in gold. You’re makin’ a pile o’ bills. Say, you keep them black pelts snug away wi’ other stuff o’ value.”

Gagnon paused and took a deep draught at his coffee.

“Say,” he went on, with a knowing smile. “I guess them black foxes lived in a gold mine–”

He broke off and watched the effect of his words. The others kept silence, only their eyes betrayed them. The smoke curled slowly up from their pipes and hung in a cloud about the creaking roof. The fire burned fiercely in the stove, and with every rush of wind outside there came a corresponding roar of flame up the stovepipe.

“Maybe you take my meanin’,” said the Breed, assured that his words had struck home. “Them black furs was chock full o’ grit–an’ that grit was gold-dust. Guess that dust didn’t grow in them furs; an’ I ’lows foxes don’t fancy a bed o’ such stuff. Say, boys, you’ve struck gold in this layout o’ yours. That’s what’s brought me out in this all-fired storm.”

The two brothers exchanged rapid glances and then Ralph spoke for them both.

“You’re smart, Victor. That’s so. We’ve been workin’ a patch o’ pay-dirt for nigh on to twelve month. But it’s worked out; clear out to the bedrock. It wa’n’t jest a great find, though I ’lows, while it lasted, we took a tidy wage out o’ it–”

“An’ what might you call a ‘tidy wage’?” asked the Breed, in a tone of disappointment. He knew these men so well that he did not doubt their statement; but he was loth to relinquish his dream. He had come there to make an arrangement with them. If they had a gold working he considered that, provided he could be of use to them, there would be ample room for him in it. This had been the object of his hazardous journey. And now he was told that it had worked out. He loved gold, and the news came as a great blow to him.

He watched Ralph keenly while he awaited his reply, sitting up in his eagerness.

“Seventy-fi’ dollars a day,” Ralph spoke without enthusiasm.

Victor’s eyes sparkled.

“Each?” he asked.

“No, on shares.”

There was another long silence while the voice of the storm was loud without. Victor Gagnon was thinking hard, but his face was calm, his expression almost indifferent. More coffee was drunk, and the smoke continued to rise.

“I ’lows you should know if it’s worked out, sure.”

The sharp eyes seemed to go through Ralph.

“Dead sure. We ain’t drawn a cent’s worth o’ colour out o’ it fer nine months solid.”

“’Tain’t worth prospectin’ fer the reef?”

“Can’t say. I ain’t much when it comes to prospectin’ gold. I knows the colour when I sees it.”

Nick joined in the conversation at this point.

“Guess you’d a notion you fancied bein’ in it,” he said, smiling over at the Breed.

Victor laughed a little harshly.

“That’s jest what.”

The two brothers nodded. This they had understood.

“I’d have found all the plant fer big work,” went on the trader eagerly. “I’d have found the cash to do everything. I’d have found the labour. An’ us three ’ud have made a great syndicate. We’d ’a’ run it dead secret. Wi’ me in it we could ’a’ sent our gold down to the bank by the dogs, an’, bein’ as my shack’s so far from here, no one ’ud ever ’a’ found whar the yeller come from. It ’ud ’a’ been a real fine game–a jo-dandy game. An’ it’s worked clear out?” he asked again, as though to make certain that he had heard aright.

“Bottomed right down to the bedrock. Maybe ye’d like to see fer yourself?”

“Guess I ken take your word, boys; ye ain’t the sort to lie to a pal. I’m real sorry.” He paused and shifted his position. Then he went on with a slightly cunning look. “I ’lows you’re like to take a run down to Edmonton one o’ these days. A feller mostly likes to make things hum when he’s got a good wad.” Gagnon’s tone was purely conversational. But his object must have been plain to any one else. He was bitterly resentful at the working out of the placer mine, and his anger always sent his thoughts into crooked channels. His nature was a curious one; he was honest enough, although avaricious, while his own ends were served. It was different when he was balked.

“We don’t notion a city any,” said Nick, simply.

“Things is confusin’ to judge by the yarns folks tell,” added Ralph, with a shake of his shaggy head.

“Them fellers as comes up to your shack, Victor, mostly talks o’ drink, an’ shootin’, an’–an’ women,” Nick went on. “Guess the hills’ll do us. Maybe when we’ve done wi’ graft an’ feel that it ’ud be good to laze, likely we’ll go down an’ buy a homestead on the prairie. Maybe, I sez.”

Nick spoke dubiously, like a man who does not convince himself.

“Hah, that’s ’cause you’ve never been to a city,” said the Breed sharply.

“Jest so,” observed Ralph quietly, between the puffs at his pipe.

Gagnon laughed silently. His eyes were very bright and he looked from one brother to the other with appreciation. An idea had occurred to him and he was mentally probing the possibilities of carrying it out. What he saw pleased him, for he continued to smile.

“Well, well, maybe you’re right,” he said indulgently. Then silence fell.

Each man was rapt in his own thoughts, and talk without a definite object was foreign to at least two of the three. The brothers were waiting in their stolid Indian fashion for sleep to come. The trader was thinking hard behind his lowered eyelids, which were almost hidden by the thick smoke which rose from his pipe.

The fire burned down and was replenished. Ralph rose and gathered the pannikins and threw them into a biscuit-box. Then he laid out his blankets while Nick went over and bolted the door. Still the trader did not look up. When the two men had settled themselves comfortably in their blankets the other at last put his pipe away.

“No,” he said, as he too negotiated his blankets, “guess we want good sound men in these hills, anyway. I reckon you’ve no call to get visitin’ the prairie, boys; you’re the finest hunters I’ve ever known. D’ye know the name your shack here goes by among the down-landers? They call it the ‘Westley Injun Reserve.’”

“White Injuns,” said Nick, with a grin followed by a yawn.

“That’s what,” observed Victor, curling himself up in his blankets. “I’ve frequent heard tell of the White Squaw, but White Injuns sounds like as it wa’n’t jest possible. Howsum, they call you real white buck neches, an’ I ’lows ther’ ain’t no redskin in the world to stan’ beside you on the trail o’ a fur.”

The two men laughed at their friend’s rough tribute to their attainments. Ralph was the quieter of the two, but his appreciation was none the less. He was simple-hearted, but he knew his own worth when dealing with furs. Nick laughed loudly. It tickled him to be considered a White Indian at the calling which was his, for his whole pride was in his work.

Nick was not without a romantic side to his nature. The life of the mountains had imbued him with a half-savage superstition which revelled in the uncanny lore of such places. This was not the first time he had heard of a White Squaw, and, although he did not believe such a phenomenon possible, it appealed seductively to his love of the marvellous. Victor had turned over to sleep, but Nick was very wide awake and interested. He could not let such an opportunity slip. Victor was good at a yarn. And, besides, Victor knew more of the mountain-lore than any one else. So he roused the Breed again.

“You was sayin’ about a White Squaw, Victor,” he said, in a shamefaced manner. His bronzed cheeks were deeply flushed and he glanced over at his brother to see if he were laughing at him. Ralph was lying full length upon his blankets and his eyes were closed, so he went on. “Guess I’ve heerd tell of a White Squaw. Say, ain’t it that they reckon as she ain’t jest a human crittur?”

Victor opened his eyes and rolled over on his back. If there was one weakness he had it was the native half-breed love of romancing. He was ever ready to yarn. He revelled in it when he had a good audience. Nick was the very man for him, simple, honest, superstitious. So he sat up and answered readily enough.

“That’s jest how, pard. An’ it ain’t a yarn neither. It’s gospel truth. I know.”

“Hah!” ejaculated Nick, while a strange feeling passed down his spine. Ralph’s eyes had slowly opened, but the others did not notice him.

“I’ve seen her!” went on the trader emphatically.

“You’ve seen her!” said Nick, in an awed whisper.

An extra loud burst of the storming wind held the men silent a moment, then, as it died away, Victor went on.

“Yes, I see her with my own two eyes, an’ I ain’t like to ferget it neither. Say, ye’ve seen them Bible ’lustrations in my shanty? Them pictur’s o’ lovesome critturs wi’ feathery wings an’ sech?”

“I guess.”

“Wal, clip them wings sheer off, an’ you’ve got her dead right.”

“Mush! But she must be a dandy sight,” exclaimed Nick, with conviction. “How come ye to–”

“Guess it’s a long yarn, an’ maybe ye’re wantin’ to sleep.”

“Say, I ’lows I’d like that yarn, Victor. I ain’t worried for sleep, any.”

Nick deliberately refilled his pipe and lit it, and passed his tobacco to the trader. Victor took the pouch. Ralph’s eyes had closed again.

“You allus was a great one fer a yarn, Nick,” began the half-breed, with a laugh. “Guess you most allus gets me gassin’; but say, this ain’t no yarn, in a way. It’s the most cur’us bit o’ truth, as maybe you’ll presently allow. But I ain’t goin’ to tell it you if ye ain’t believin’, ’cause it’s the truth.” The trader’s face had become quite serious and he spoke with unusual earnestness. Nick was impressed, and Ralph’s eyes had opened again.

“Git goin’, pard; guess your word’s good fer me,” Nick said eagerly. “You was sayin’–”

“Ye’ve heard tell o’ the Moosefoot Injuns?” began the trader slowly. Nick nodded. “They’re a queer lot o’ neches. I used to do a deal o’ trade wi’ them on the Peace River, ’fore they was located on a reserve. They were the last o’ the old-time redskin hunters. Dessay they were the last to hunt the buffalo into the drives. They’re pretty fine men now, I guess, as neches go, but they ain’t nothin’ to what they was. I guess that don’t figger anyway, but they’re different from most Injuns, which is what I was coming to. Their chief ain’t a ‘brave,’ same as most, which, I ’lows, is unusual. Maybe that’s how it come they ain’t allus on the war-path, an’ maybe that’s how it come their river’s called Peace River. Their chief is a Med’cine Man; has been ever since they was drove across the mountains from British Columbia. They was pretty nigh wiped out when that happened, so they did away wi’ havin’ a ‘brave’ fer a chief, an’ took on a ‘Med’cine Man.’

“Wal, it ain’t quite clear how it come about, but the story, which is most gener’ly believed, says that the first Med’cine Man was pertic’ler cunnin’, an’ took real thick with the white folks’ way o’ doin’ things. Say, he learned his folk a deal o’ farmin’ an’ sech, an’ they took to trappin’ same as you understand it. There wa’n’t no scrappin’, nor war-path yowlin’; they jest come an’ settled right down an’ took on to the land. Wal, this feller, ’fore he died, got the Mission’ry on his trail, an’ got religion; but he couldn’t git dead clear o’ his med’cine, an’ he got to prophesyin’. He called all his folk together an’ took out his youngest squaw. She was a pretty crittur, sleek as an antelope fawn; I ’lows her pelt was nigh as smooth an’ soft. Her eyes were as black an’ big as a moose calf’s, an’ her hair was as fine as black fox fur. Wal, he up an’ spoke to them folk, an’ said as ther’ was a White Squaw comin’ amongst ’em who was goin’ to make ’em a great people; who was goin’ to lead ’em to victory agin their old enemies in British Columbia, where they’d go back to an’ live in peace. An’ he told ’em as this squaw was goin’ to be the instrument by which the comin’ of the White Squaw was to happen. Then they danced a Med’cine Dance about her, an’ he made med’cine for three days wi’out stoppin’. Then they built her a lodge o’ teepees in the heart o’ the forest, where she was to live by herself.

“Wal, time went on an’ the squaw give birth to a daughter, but she wa’n’t jest white, so the men took and killed her, I guess. Then came another; she was whiter than the first, but she didn’t jest please the folk, an’ they killed her too. Then came another, an’ another, each child whiter than the last, an’ they were all killed, ’cause I guess they wa’n’t jest white. Till the seventh come along. The seventh was the White Squaw. Say, fair as a pictur, wi’ black hair that shone in the sun, an’ wi’ eyes that blue as ’ud shame the summer sky.”

The half-breed paused, and sat staring with introspective gaze at the iron side of the stove. Nick was gazing at him all eyes and ears for the story. Ralph, too, was sitting up now.

“Wal, she was taken care of an’ treated like the queen she was. On’y the headman was allowed to look at her. She grew an’ grew, an’ all the tribe was thinkin’ of war, an’ gettin’ ready. They made ‘braves’ nigh every week, an’ their Sun Dances was the greatest ever known. They danced Ghost Dances, too, to keep away Evil Spirits, I guess, an’ things was goin’ real good. Then sudden comes the white folk, an’ after a bit they was all herded on to a Reserve an’ kep’ there. But that White Squaw never left her home in the forest, ’cause no one but the headman knew where she was. She was on’y a young girl then; I guess she’s grown now. Wal, fer years them pore critturs reckoned on her comin’ along an’ leadin’ them out on the war-path. But she didn’t come; she jest stayed right along with her mother in that forest, an’ didn’t budge.

“That’s the yarn as it stan’s,” Victor went on, after another pause, “but this is how I come to see her. It was winter, an’ I was tradin’ on the Reserve there. It was a fine, cold day, an’ the snow was good an’ hard, an’ I set out to hunt an old bull moose that was runnin’ with its mates in the location. I took two neches with me, an’ we had a slap-up time fer nigh on to a week. We hunted them moose hard the whole time, but never came up wi’ ’em. Then it came on to storm, an’ we pitched camp in a thick pine forest. We was there fer nigh on three days while it stormed a’mighty hard. Then it cleared an’ we set out, an’, wi’in fifty yards o’ our camp, we struck the trail o’ the moose. We went red-hot after them beasts, I’m figgerin’, an’ they took us into the thick o’ the forest. Then we got a couple o’ shots in; my slugs got home, but, fer awhiles, we lost them critturs. Next day we set out again, an’ at noon we was startled by hearin’ a shot fired by som’un else. We kep’ right on, an’ bimeby we came to a clearin’. There we saw four teepees an’ a shack o’ pine logs all smeared wi’ colour; but what came nigh to par’lyzin’ me was the sight o’ my moose lyin’ all o’ a heap on the ground, an’, standin’ beside its carcass, leanin’ on a long muzzle-loader, was a white woman. She was wearin’ the blanket right enough, but she was as white as you are. Say, she had six great huskies wi’ her, an’ four women. An’ when they see us they put hard into the woods. I was fer goin’ to have a look at the teepees, but my neches wouldn’t let me. They told me the lodge was sacred to the White Squaw, who we’d jest seen. An’ I ’lows, they neches wa’n’t jest easy till we cleared them woods.”

“An’ she was beautiful, an’–an’ fine?” asked Nick, as the trader ceased speaking. “Was she that beautiful as you’d heerd tell of?”

His voice was eager with suppressed excitement. His pipe had gone out, and he had forgotten everything but the story the Breed had told.

“Ay, that she was; her skin was as clear as the snow she trod on, an’ her eyes–gee! but I’ve never seen the like. Man, she was wonderful.”

Victor threw up his hands in a sort of ecstasy and looked up at the creaking roof.

“An’ her hair?” asked Nick, wonderingly.

“A black fox pelt was white aside it.”

“An’ didn’t ye foller her?”

The question came abruptly from Ralph, whom the others had forgotten.

“I didn’t jest know you was awake,” said Victor. “Wal, no, to own the truth, I ’lows I was scart to death wi’ what them neches said. Maybe I wa’n’t sorry to light out o’ them woods.”

They talked on for a few moments longer, then Ralph’s stertorous breathing told of sleep. Victor was not long in following his example. Nick sat smoking thoughtfully for some time; presently he rose and put out the lamp and stoked up the fire. Then he, too, rolled over in his blankets, and, thinking of the beautiful White Squaw, dropped off to sleep to continue his meditations in dreamland.