Читать книгу Downey of the Mounted - James B. Hendryx - Страница 4

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THE heat rose in crinkly waves from the hard-packed street and the wooden sidewalks of the little mid-Saskatchewan town. In the distance, the Touchwood Hills looked green and cool.

Cameron Downey’s eyes were on the hills, and his thoughts were on the cool waters of the lake, as he stood in the doorway of his father’s store and listened anxiously for the sound of wheels.

All the long forenoon, and the hour that had intervened since he had bolted a hasty dinner in the little white house across the street, he had spent in the stuffy back room of the store with a bag of coarse salt, a large wooden paddle, and a tub of butter. It was a nasty job—working over rancid butter for shipment—a job that Cameron Downey particularly detested. But, it was finished now, and, as he “tended store” while his father ate his dinner, he listened for the rattle of the dilapidated one-horse wagon that was to convey him and his three “pardners” on a two-weeks’ camping trip into the hills. Two whole weeks! Never but once in the whole fifteen years of his life had he been to the Hills, and then only for a day. Almost since he could remember he had worked in the store.

Cameron Downey’s life had been encompassed by walls—the four walls of the store, and the four other walls of the school house. The life he longed to live took no thought of walls, unless, perchance, the thick log walls of some outland trading post far in the unmapped North. True, he fished and swam evenings, in the river, and in the little lake whose waters lapped the edges of the town. But, now, he was going to camp! Nothing to do for two whole weeks but fish, and swim, and watch the birds and the bees—and maybe they would see a deer! And maybe, if they were lucky, they would fall in with a roving band of berry-picking Indians. Cameron had always envied the Indians who came to town and traded their berries at his father’s store and drifted on. Where? Always the boy had wondered where, as he watched them disappear across the flats in the direction of the Touchwood Hills.

He wished his father would finish his dinner and come back to the store. If the boys came along first and found they had to wait they might not like it—might even drive on without him. He unconsciously knew, and as unconsciously recognized the fitness of youth’s brutality to youth. The other boys had all been to the Hills before. The fact that his inclusion this year was the result of an accident, detracted in no particular from the joy of his anticipation. The other boys had simply known that Angus Downey—Pinchpenny Angus, he was called by his fellow-townsmen—would never allow a son of his to fritter away two weeks’ time that could be turned to profit.

But, this year they took a chance! Cameron remembered, as he waited, the thrill that shot through him that day, two weeks before, when Stub Warring leaned across the counter and abstracted a handful of prunes from the package the boy was tying up. “Say, Cam,” whispered Stub, one eye on the elder Downey, who was measuring calico from a bolt on the back counter, “why don’t you ask old Pinch—I mean, yer dad, if you can’t go campin’ with us this year up in the Hills? Lew Evans busted his leg this mornin’, an’ Doc Severs says he’ll be laid up fer more’n a month. Me an’ Billy an’ Doodle don’t want to go, jest the three of us, an’ there’s only you an’ Red Rasnik, an’ we’d rather have you.”

“If I only could,” thought Cameron, as he glanced toward his father. Aloud, he said: “I’d like to go. I’ve never been campin’. I’ll ask him, an’ let you know in a couple of days.”

“We gotta know tonight. We’re goin’ to start in two weeks. It don’t cost nothin’, hardly. We all divide up on the grub, an’ my dad lets us take old Bill, he’s slow, but he’s willin’. An’ Sam Brant, he said we can take that old wagon that’s standin’ behine his blacksmith shop. All it needs is greasin’ an’ wirin’ up the shafts an’ the reach an’ it’ll run. An’ yesterday we took old Bill an’ snaked out that old row boat that was sunk in the mud. All it needs is a new bottom an’ sides, an’ some paint, an’ she’ll be good as ever. But it’ll take a lot of work.”

“I could help, evenings.”

“Sure, you could—you an’ Doodle both. He’s carryin’ water on the construction crew, but he’s goin’ to quit to go campin’. If me an’ Billy works daytimes, an’ you an’ Doodle evenin’s, we could get her done.”

“I’ll find out, an’ see you down by the lake tonight,” answered the boy, and as Stub went whistling out the door with his packages, he resumed his interrupted task of arranging canned goods on the shelves.

Several times during the long forenoon, the boy glanced toward his father, but never did he succeed in screwing his courage to the point of asking the momentous question. He decided to wait till noon, when, if there were no customers, his father would lock up the store and they would go to dinner together. It would be easier to ask with his mother there. She, too, loved the outdoors, and she would put in a good word for him.

The meal was half finished when the boy spoke: “The boys are goin’ campin’,” he said. “They’re goin’ in a couple of weeks.”

Angus Downey did not look up, and Cameron glanced toward his mother whose eyes lighted with interest: “That so, sonny, where are they going?”

“Out in the Hills. They’re goin’ to take a boat and everything, and stay two weeks. They want me to go with them.”

Angus looked up with frowning brow: “What! Fritter away two weeks in idleness! Living like a savage in the hills with evil companions!”

“It would be the best thing in the world for him,” ventured the boy’s mother. “And I don’t think the boys could be called evil companions.”

“It’s little enough ye know of them. Didn’t I see with my own eyes this very morning that brat of Warring’s reach out an’ filch a handful of prunes from the bag on the scales?”

“They were weighed out,” defended the boy.

“Stealing is stealing, no matter who is the loser. It is even worse after they were weighed than before, for not only does the boy’s mother lose the prunes, but I may be unjustly accused of giving short weight.”

“He’s only a boy,” answered the woman, “and what’s a handful of prunes? I’m sure he didn’t mean to steal.”

“So much the worse if stealing has become second nature to him. Thieves are made, not born. It’s prunes today, and a dollar tomorrow, and a thousand dollars the next day.”

“Cammie has worked hard, Angus. And you know the old saying: ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.’ ”

“Aye, and another as good that says: ‘Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.’ Woman, I’m surprised that ye’d be defending thievery, and encouraging ye’re own son in idleness!” The man rose abruptly and put on his hat. At the door he paused: “Hurry over as soon as ye’re through—there’s eggs to candle.”

As Mrs. Downey removed the empty plate and substituted another, she noticed that a big tear dropped onto the flaky crust of the broad wedge of pie. She stroked the boy’s hair: “There, there, sonnie, never mind. Your father does what he thinks best. Sometimes I wish he was more like his own father. Grandpa Downey is one of the most lovable men I ever knew. He’s easy going, and he loves the wild country.”

“He wants me to come and visit him—but pa’ll never let me go. Grandpa knows all about Injuns, and bears, and deer, and beavers, and things. Why didn’t pa stay in the North? Then we could live up there and I could hunt and fish and trap.”

“Your father hated the wild country. He persuaded your grandfather to send him to school in Winnipeg, and he never went back. He worked in a store until he saved enough to move out here and start a store of his own. The store is what he lives for.”

“I hate the store!” exclaimed the boy, bitterly. “An’ I do want to go campin’.”

“Of course you do, sonnie. And I want you to go, too. Perhaps we can find a way——”

The boy pushed back his chair and reached for his hat. “No use tryin’,” he said. “When pa says a thing he won’t change his mind, no matter what we say. When I get big enough I’m goin’ away. I hate stores and towns! I’d have gone long ago if it wasn’t for you!”

“There, there—run along, now. Pa means well, but he’s hard-headed. I’ll try to think of a way.”

The boy threw his arms about his mother’s neck and kissed her: “Never mind. I don’t care so very much. Anyway, it’s no use. I got to let the boys know tonight.”

From the doorway, the woman watched the little figure cross the street, and as he entered the store, another figure caught her eye. Warring, the banker, was returning from dinner. His round, jovial face showed red under the white brim of his straw hat. A sudden thought, and she stepped down the walk to the gate of the prim picket fence that surrounded the front yard. The banker raised his hat: “Hello, Mrs. Downey! Wheu! Ain’t this a sizzler? Look at that gang of kids headin’ for the swimmin’ hole! My kid’s burnt black as an Injun. Good for ’em. Wouldn’t mind goin’ myself. By Golly, I believe I will!” Laughing, he raised his voice and called to the half-dozen barefoot boys that were crossing a vacant lot in the direction of the river: “Hey, boys, got room for a fat man in the old swimmin’ hole?”

“Oh, come on, dad!” cried the boy who had filched the prunes. “Bet I’ll beat you undressed!”

“Sure, come on, Mr. Warring! Bet you could float fine!” This from the freckled-faced son of the section foreman.

“What d’you think of that?” laughed the banker, “beat me undressed—when he don’t wear nothin’ but a shirt an’ pants! An’ that other kid talks like I was a tub of grease! Well, good-bye, Mrs. Downey. The kids are waitin’, an’ I can’t afford to be the last one in—that’s an awful disgrace, you know!”

“Just a minute, Mr. Warring,” said the woman wistfully. “It’s about Cammie. He wants to go camping with the boys——”

“Fine thing for him!” exclaimed the man, heartily. “My kid was tellin’ me this noon they wanted him to go. Hope Angus’ll let him.”

“That’s what I wanted to see you about.”

“Me!” There was a note of surprise in the man’s voice.

“Yes—we—Cammie and I tried this noon to persuade him, but he says I’m encouraging the boy in idleness——”

“Oh, rot! The kid’s got it comin’ to him. He ought to be with that crowd of kids right now, instead of workin’ in the store vacation time. What’s vacation for, anyhow? The way to raise kids is to turn ’em loose—not work ’em to death!”

“I know—but, Angus can’t see it that way. I thought maybe you might persuade him to change his mind.”

The man laughed: “Wish I could, Mrs. Downey—but, you know Angus, once he’s got his mind made up. Might’s well argue with that hitchin’ post.”

“I know—but,” the woman paused and flushed and hurried on with her words. “It may seem kind of underhanded in me, but I do want Cammie to have that trip—Angus will be in to see you today or tomorrow about a loan to cover a deal on which he expects to make big profit——”

The banker interrupted with a laugh: “An’ you want me to sort of make the loan conditional on his lettin’ the kid go campin’—is that it?”

“Well, I thought, maybe there was some way you could fix it——”

The man removed his hat and dabbed at his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief. “Hum—let’s see, his collateral would be real estate—maybe we are kind of close to our limit on real estate loans. Of course as a special favor to a man that would let his kid go campin’—ha, ha, ha! Well—I’ll think it over—too hot to think, now—an’ besides the boys are getting fidgety—they won’t wait for me much longer. Good-bye, Mrs. Downey. I’m goin’ swimmin’.”

The woman watched the banker, surrounded by a half-dozen small boys, all talking at once, until they disappeared behind the screen of willows that fringed the river bank. Then she returned to her housework: “I guess Angus is as rich as Mr. Warring—maybe even richer—but, somehow, Mr. Warring seems to have such a good time just living. And it seems like boys naturally take to him.”

An hour later, with necktie awry, and pongee suit much the worse for contact with the wet marsh grass, Banker Warring walked with his son from the river. “There’s old Pinchpenny!” exclaimed the boy. “He just went into the bank.”

“I wouldn’t call him that, if I were you, son. It ain’t respectful.”

“That’s what everyone calls him,” defended the boy. “He’s stingy, an’ he makes Cam work all the time.”

“Maybe so, but callin’ him names don’t help matters out.”

“I bet he won’t let Cam go campin’ with us.”

“Don’t be too sure—he might fool you. Just you remember, son, there’s always a lot of good in a man that folks don’t see. Run along now, I’ve fooled away enough time for one day. Better get what nails, an’ lumber, an’ paint an’ stuff you need for that old boat at Downey’s an’ charge it up to me.”

The boy ran off, whistling, and Warring entered the bank: “Hello, Angus!” he greeted. “Been swimmin’! Great thing on a hot day—swimmin’. Come in an’ sit down. What’s on your mind? By the way—my kid’s just been tellin’ me Cammie’s goin’ campin’ with ’em, this year. Fine thing for ’em. I tell you a kid that goes to school eight, nine months a year needs a lot of outdoors in vacation. Makes ’em think right—an’ if they think right, they’re goin’ to live right. Glad you feel that way about it, too. Like to have my kid with Cammie—good boy, Cammie is. By golly Angus, you know if a man didn’t think that way, I—I’d kind of suspect him. If he didn’t think right, he couldn’t be right—that’s the way I figure it. I wouldn’t turn over my hand to do a man like that a favor. Wouldn’t handle any of his paper—wouldn’t touch it with a pair of tongs—wouldn’t want nothin’ to do with him no matter how much collateral he could put up. Ain’t it so?”

Angus Downey cleared his throat and shifted a bit in his chair.

“Well,” he admitted, haltingly, “looking at it that way maybe ye’re right, but——”

“ ’Course I’m right. It’s my business to be right in judgin’ men. Why, not long ago, talkin’ about campin,’ someone says they’d bet Angus Downey wouldn’t let his kid go campin’. I just laughed at ’em. ‘You don’t know Angus like I do,’ I says to myself. An’ then when my kid told me today that Cammie was goin’, I knew I was right. But, here I am rattlin’ along an’ ain’t said a word about business. Anything I can do for you, Angus?”

“Yes. I want to borrow ten thousand dollars. Got a chance to make twenty, twenty-five per cent on it in about four months time.”

“Ten thousand, eh? Let’s see—what collateral would you be puttin’ up.”

“Well, there’s the old Bigbee Ranch that I bought in two years ago. A first mortgage on that ought to cover it.”

“Hum—yes—real property. Seems to me we’re pretty close to the edge on real property loans. Ah—what sort of a deal is it you’re makin’?”

“Lumber. Got a chance to buy low, an’ the way the prairie is buildin’ up, there’s a good big profit in it.”

“Yes. By the way, speakin’ of lumber—told my kid to get nails, an’ lumber, an’ paint from you an’ charge it to me. The boys are fixin’ up an old boat to take campin’—they want to go in a couple of weeks—that would suit you, wouldn’t it—to let Cammie off a couple of weeks from now?”

“Well, yes, I guess I could let him go then as well as any time.”

“That’s good. Nothin’ like gettin’ out in the wild country. Good for ’em physically an’ mentally, an’ morally, too. You bet! Look at your old dad—how old is he, now?”

“He’s goin’ on eighty-six.”

“Eighty-six! An’ look at him—carry a pack all day—shoot a canoe down through water that you or I wouldn’t dare to tackle in a steamboat! I’ve known him for thirty years, an’ he don’t look a bit older than the first day I ever saw him. There’s a man for you! An’ the wild country’s done it. He never got that way grubbin’ in a town like you an’ I do.”

“Aye,” answered Angus, with a frown, “but what’s he got out of life? Always worked on a salary, an’ none too good, at that. A few hundred dollars put by—maybe a few thousand. I doubt he could show fifty dollars saved for every year of his life.”

“Dollars be damned!” exclaimed Warring, banging the table with his fist. “He’s lived the way he wants to live. He’s one of the most respected and valuable men the Hudson’s Bay Company has got on its rolls. An’ he’s got the love an’ respect of everyone that knows him, white man an’ savage alike—an’ he’s got it because he’s earnt it! If that ain’t gettin’ all there is to get out of life, I don’t know what is!”

“Well—maybe—maybe,” admitted Angus, doubtfully. “Folks look at things different. I suppose a man has a right to live his life as he chooses, so he fears God an’ obeys the law.”

A half-hour later Warring stood at the window of the bank and watched the tall form of Angus Downey pass slowly down the street. “Say, Vern,” he called to his cashier, “you’re educated—what do they call this heredity business, when it hops over one generation an’ lights on the next?”

“Atavism,” grinned the young man in the screened cage.

“Yup—that’s it. I hope for that Downey kid’s sake, it works.”