Chapter VII: Bonanza (2)

The men of all nations occupied the station of Gull, a summer camp upon an island bearing the same name, but the majority were Norwegians and half-breeds, with a sprinkling of natives, the latter a degraded and treacherous set, resembling my own Indians about as nearly as a red lily resembles a choke-weed.

Some hotels stood upon the island, making their profits by the saloon, where some four hundred men weekly liquidated their pay. The “shelters” were all upon the island, which a shingle beach half a mile wide connected with the mainland, and along this beach curved a railway, which conveyed the prepared lumber down to the wharf of Gull Harbour, where it was shipped into scows. The saw-mills were stationed along the main beach, and here the chimneys sent out their smoke, and the buzz-saws whirled seven days to the week, because the season was short.

The _Lac Seul_ of the Hudson Bay Company had carried MacCaskill and myself as far as Waterhen, and we had made the portage of fifty-seven miles from that point to the shores of Lake Peace on foot. I was frightened at the sight of so many faces, and bewildered by the noise and devilry of the camp; but my companion fortunately knew where to go, and I followed him closely, as though I had been his dog.

We put up at the Tecumseh House, and the factor took me about to accustom me to the novelty of my environment. In winter this settlement would be heaped up with snow and icebergs, and the only inhabitants would be a few Norwegians, left to look after the machinery, with sufficient supplies to last them until the following May. There were no women in the lumber camp, only men, and a bad crowd of them, according to the factor.

I could not sleep in the Tecumseh House because of the all-night noise of the card-players, and the shouts and threats of drunkards, and at last I gave up the attempt. It was quite dark, although near morning, when I rose and dressed, and was about to leave the room when MacCaskill came to comprehend what I was doing. I explained that I could not sleep, and had made up my mind to go out and walk into the forest, that I might feel myself at home again.

“Watch yourself,” he grunted sleepily. “It’s a bad crowd hereabouts. If any feller speaks to ye awkward, ask him what he wants after you’ve knocked him down.”

The hotel door stood wide open night or day, the entrance only guarded by a wire mosquito frame. All about the hall were men, either lying in chairs or sprawling upon the floor, in various stages of sleep, and all fully dressed.

It was an unusually cold morning considering the season. A heavy vapour hung upon the east to proclaim the nearness of the dawn. The air was wringing with moisture; but when I reached the track my ears became gladdened by the pleasant booming of the water along the shore. Before me a few shadowy trees dripped and shivered. I shivered myself at the miserable prospect, and, for very loneliness, stopped to light my pipe, longing all the time for my little home above Yellow Sands.

It was only natural that I should desire to reach the solitude which life and custom had made me love, and I felt relieved when the last shelter had been left behind, and I felt myself alone on the neck of shingle between wind and water. Suddenly my foot went from under me, and I discovered that I had slipped upon an iron rail. I had forgotten the railway track which carried the lumber from the main beach, until I saw a red eye peering through the mist, and in the interval the metals gleaming in the cold half-light, with beyond some low black cars, all dripping with moisture, like silent monsters that had crawled there from the lake to sleep.

I walked on, and had reached the side of these open cars, when I became startled by a shadow which rose overhead, and I made out a brown-bearded face, crowned by a ragged, wet straw bonnet, the chin resting upon two filthy hands clutching the top of the car.

“Mornin’, stranger!” called this apparition.

The man was well out of my reach. So far as I could judge, from the lack of light and the little I saw of him, he was dressed in the discoloured canvas which I had already learnt was the costume of the sailors upon the inland sea of Lake Peace. I replied very shortly to his salutation, and was for passing on, when the tenant of the car shifted, and said:

“Gimme a match!”

An unmistakable rustling reached my ears, and I said as boldly as I could:

“That’s straw you’re lying on.”

“Jest a bunch, an’ leetle enough for sich a night,” grumbled the man, beating his cold hands together. “I’m ’most fruze. If I was to make a move, sudden-like, I’d have some of me bones snap. You’re around early, stranger, or late, maybe. Ben playin’ poker?”

I made a step away.

“Gimme a match, jest to start me bit o’ plug. It’s lonesome fixed here without a pard. Here’s half a pipe-load, an’ it’ll smoke good. Don’t ye be scared of a blaze this wet mornin’.”

Somehow I did not intend to yield to his pleading, and went on my way, whereupon the sailor changed his tactics, and shouted:

“You’re the mean pard of the white-face Icelander skunk what went by jest now. He swore at me when I spoke him perlite, ‘Gimme a match, pard,’ and I swore at him back. You’re a pair of loose cat-fish!”

I did not know at the time that the phrase, “a loose cat-fish,” signified upon Lake Peace a man’s supreme contempt for an adversary; I only observed the phrase, “a white-face Icelander,” and that was enough to stop me. We had heard nothing of Redpath or his accomplice, although MacCaskill was confident that they must have proceeded to Gull Island, which was the nearest point in communication with our common destination.

“Which way did he go?” I said, turning back.

The sailor rubbed the moisture from his heavy eyebrows.

“We’re startin’ to shout!” he said, with a husky laugh. “Gimme a match.”

I took a few sulphur matches from my pocket, and passed them into the grimy hand.

“Me mem’ry’s sorter wakin’,” went on the sailor cheerfully, “but a dollar bill would live it along surprisin’.”

I saw that I was being made a fool of, so I said sharply:

“Are you going to tell me which way the Icelander went?”

“Not unless you show silver,” said the sailor, pulling a match along his leg. “We can’t work for nothin’ in hard times.”

“I haven’t got a cent on me,” I said, and it was the truth. I might also have added, with equal truth, that I had never owned a cent of cash in my life.

“He’s only jest got by,” the man said temptingly. “When I heard ye, I thought ’twas him a-comin’ back to apologise, an’ a-beggin’ me acceptance of a paper o’ matches.”

I had played enough poker at home with my father and MacCaskill to have acquired the first principles of bluff. Had I not already succeeded with Redpath?

“I guess he went this way,” I said, moving off in the direction of the mainland.

“You’ll get left,” said the sailor, puffing contentedly. “See here, stranger! Yer pard’s gone along inter the town. That’s truth, for givin’ me the matches.”

I swung round, and went on the way I had intended, leaving the sailor cursing in the car.

Light began to prevail over the shadows as I approached the mainland beach, where great piles of prepared lumber for the markets of the world awaited shipment. Above and around, thousands of those white birds which had named the neighbourhood filled the air with the noise of their wings and their screams. It was difficult to make rapid progress, because the shingle was littered with logs, and the light was shifting and uncertain. The saw-mills took shape before me, and the half-wrecked forest gaped behind. Then a short figure began to dodge about a sheltered angle made by the wall of the nearest machine-shed, and I felt sure I had recognised my man. Coming up as quickly as I could, I thought for the moment that the rascal was trying to set fire to the shed, but when I was almost up, I encountered the stiff breeze from the lake, and understood that he was getting a light for his pipe. He was bending his back towards me; a tiny red flame shot up, and a cloud of smoke followed. The next instant I was behind him, cutting off the only way of retreat, and, while his head was still down, I called “Olaffson!”

The pipe was dashed against the corner of the shed, and fell to the shingle. An exclamation of dismay followed, not from his lips, but from mine. Before me was not the white face of Olaffson, but the dark, heavy countenance of a half-breed whom I had never seen before. I hurriedly concluded that this stranger knew Olaffson, had possibly just parted from him, the Icelander returning to the settlement, as the sailor had said, and this man coming on to the mills.

“I made sure you were Olaffson,” I said coolly, as the half-breed bent to reclaim his pipe. “Has he gone back to the camp?”

The man looked at me stupidly.

“What d’yer want wi’ Olaffson?” he muttered at last.

“I just want to know how far you are in with him and Redpath.”

The half-breed shifted, and avoided my gaze.

“Redpath ain’t here,” he growled.

I began to be delighted with myself, and went on with increased confidence:

“I know where he is.” This shot had no effect, but I remembered the Icelander’s character, and suggested meaningly: “You’re in with Olaffson against Redpath.”

The half-breed again moved awkwardly, and growled:

“That ain’t so.”

“I know Olaffson,” I said.

Possibly these simple words contained a meaning beyond my understanding. The man glanced towards me wildly, then dropped his eyes, and kicked sullenly at the wooden scantling, his face wearing that grey pallor which betokens fear in a half-black.

“And I guess you know me,” I went on. “My name is Petrie.”

That beat him. He turned shivering, and edged away, his face ghastly.

“Lemme go,” he whined. “I never done it. You can’t bring it up agin me. I tell ye I didn’t have a hand in it. Lemme go, _sir_.”

Mentally blindfolded, I fumbled for the truth.

“Don’t you tell me you haven’t seen Olaffson this morning,” I said.

“He’s on the island,” admitted the breed. “I saw him las’ night.”

“And Redpath, too.”

But the man gave a strong denial. He declared he had not set eyes upon the English adventurer for years, and I was constrained to believe him, because I could see that he was terribly afraid of Redpath.

“What’s your name?” I said sharply.

Success had made me too bold. The question displayed the weakness of my hand, and dull as the man might be, he was quick enough to see the blunder. He stared at me in his owlish fashion, and muttered hopefully:

“You ain’t Petrie.”

“I guess so,” I said, feeling myself weaken.

“Let me out er this,” said the half-breed roughly.

He pushed by me with contempt, and I was too crestfallen to oppose him. In any case I could not have used force, because the day had broken, and men were already coming along the neck connecting Gull with the mainland. The breed slouched away towards the saw-mills, and I walked back to Tecumseh House, where I found MacCaskill starting his breakfast. When I had reported, he said:

“A half-breed, eh? I’ll go one better, and put a name to him. Don’t ye mind old man’s statement? That feller’s name will be Leblanc, the ‘half-breed of the worst class.’”

Directly the factor spoke I remembered, but the chance had passed.

All day we kept to ourselves, considering our plans; but after dark the factor impressed upon me the necessity of mixing with the crowd, as otherwise the inhabitants of Gull might conceive the idea that we imagined ourselves superior to them, and that is the way which leads to unpopularity.

To me this summer camp, with its stores and saloons, was a great, bustling centre of life, and I thought myself quite one of the world’s citizens; but when I asked my partner if Gull at all resembled the town of London, where I had first seen the light, he doubled up with laughter.

“Why, Rupe, this is only a bit of a lumber camp. You should see London, Ontario, me boy, where things do keep on the buzz. And they say that London, Ontario, ain’t in the same gang of flies wi’ London, England.”

Suddenly the lamp-lighted night-dens began to disgorge their occupants; and when everyone set their faces towards Gull Harbour, the factor stopped a flaxen-haired Swede, and asked him the reason of the excitement. He returned to me with the information that the steamship _Carillon_ was just drawing into harbour, while the residents were turning out to put themselves into communication, so far as they might, with the outer world.

“She’s the boat we’re going by,” said my partner.

We joined the rough-voiced crowd of all nations, and came to the round, slippery logs that made the landing-stage.

To me the scene resembled a vivid dream rather than any picture of human activity. The big ship moved in slowly, her lights flickering, and presently the ropes, like lithe brown snakes, sped uncoiling through the air. Everything was silvered with wet, because clouds of spray swept continually over the wharf, and the wind freshened even while we waited. Hanging to the rough poles, above the waves that were breaking and creaming over the stones, a few greasy lanterns swayed; and in the conflict of lights hundreds of gulls circled, screamed wildly, and dropped upon the water like huge snowflakes, or wheeled away into the outer darkness. Behind the settlement tiers of black rock went up, backed by ascending terraces of sweeping trees of soft wood, right away to the dark-blue sky-line; and between, where the waves were flung upon the crags, I saw innumerable points of light lit by the fireflies, darting, going out, and starting again into light. The gangways ran out, and the canvas-clad sailors were quickly at work, rolling provision barrels over the greasy logs to an accompaniment of shouts and dialect chatter. A few bundles of newspapers were dispersed, and here and there an eager group had formed to discuss the news of the world by aid of one of the lanterns.

Presently a voice shouted close beside us:

“Watch yerselves, boys, here’s the mission-airy!”

“What’s that?” MacCaskill called, pushing forward, while I followed, unwilling to be left.

“Father Lacombe, of Three Points,” said one of the sailors, flinging a barrel up on end, and spitting on his hands before clutching another.

While he spoke I caught sight of the large, black figure of the first priest I had ever seen, stepping carefully over the logs. He was wearing a hard felt hat, and his cassock was fastened up behind by means of a safety-pin; I caught the glint of this tiny article as the priest walked away towards the settlement of Gull.

“Three Points Mission. That’s across Peace,” said MacCaskill, turning to me. “P’r’aps he’ll cross wi’ us.”

Father Lacombe walked away leisurely, his valise tucked under his arm, his cape flapping in the strong breeze, and when darkness had closed after him the crowd began to jeer.

SOME HUMAN NATURE

On the following morning (Sunday), MacCaskill took me into the Star saloon, the foregathering place-in-chief of the lumbermen, in order to introduce me to some human character. The bar was filled with men who had religious scruples against working on Sunday, all in peaceful mood, reading the newspapers that had come with the _Carillon_, or commenting upon the doings of many a country and many a personage whose names I now heard for the first time. It was not etiquette to gamble before noon. A regular gale was blowing at the time, and heavy rain lashed the tin roofing.

Overhead, a lighted lamp swayed, its yellow glass fogged in smoke, which wreathed everything; the odour of this smoke, combined with that of the liquors, and the chewing of black tobacco, was sufficient to almost intoxicate a saloon tyro; but, fortunately, my manner of life had been so healthy that I experienced no inconvenience beyond a certain unpleasantness in getting my breath. The factor paid our footing, and we were established and introduced as good citizens of the town of Gull by the simple process of drinking with the crowd.

Presently my companion nudged me.

“Do ye mind yon feller?” he said, nodding towards the end of the bar, where two men, one tall and elderly, the other fat and middle-aged, stood smoking very black cigars. “The feller wi’ black and white hair? That’s Bob Lennie, captain of the _Carillon_. Come across.”

We joined the two men, and the factor introduced me.

“What’ll ye have?” said the captain at once.

A bottle was pushed across the sloppy bar, and we helped ourselves, although I did little more than flavour the water with the hot corn whisky, which I thought the most nauseous compound I had ever tasted. By this time I began to understand why men would run mad at the suggestion of gold; but that they should care to wreck their bodies for the sake of such horrible stuff as that biting liquor, as the factor assured me they did, was to me incredible.

“This is my mate,” Lennie was saying. “Sandy, boy, here’s Andy MacCaskill and Rupe Petrie from Yellow Sands. You’re comin’ across, eh? Well, we’re going north quite a piece, an’ comin’ back wi’ a cargo of fish. We’ll be gettin’ away for the Little Peace in maybe five days’ time, if this dirty weather don’t hold.”

I had seen few men, but I could not have imagined any stranger-looking than Bob Lennie. His cadaverous face was cross-hatched with innumerable lines, his eyes were dark and wild, his hair partly coal-black, and partly silver-grey. He stooped a good deal, but he was well over sixty. He was the father of north-west navigators, and nearly every part of the treacherous inland sea of Lake Peace, its hidden reefs and shoals and silt-bars, were to him an open book.

“Not many passengers these days, I guess?” hinted MacCaskill, when we had found a corner to ourselves.

Sandy, the mate, smuggled beside me, and launched himself into a discussion of something which he called the silver question in the United States; but I could do nothing except listen, throwing in a monosyllable of sheer ignorance occasionally. He was quite content to monopolise the conversation, while I listened to the captain and my partner. The former was saying, in answer to the latter’s question:

“A few new hands comin’ out to the fisheries, and a preacher once in a while. Say, we picked up Father Lacombe yesterday morning, and he’s paid on to the Little Peace.”

“Where did ye strike him, anyhow?” asked MacCaskill.

“We was passin’ White River, an’ he signalled. Said he’d packed down to the coast after a mission-airy journey upland, wi’ a couple of nitchies, who took themselves off in the night wi’ all his supplies. I said to him, ‘Don’t ye want to find them thieves, father?’ ‘Course not,’ he said. ‘It’s a punishment to me for havin’ taught ’em badly.’ Lord, Mac! don’t these preachers talk soft!”

The two men laughed together.

“He’s quite a priest down east, they tell me,” went on Lennie.

“Saw him come ashore,” said MacCaskill. “He don’t look strong on fasting Fridays.”

“They do say the less some men do eat the fatter they do get. It’s one of those things they call a parridox. But what’s the father wantin’ around Gull at all?”

“No, siree!” shouted the little mate at my ear. “What’s the silver standard? Explain to me the value of free silver. In what way, sir, is the silver dollar better than the paper? Tell me that.”

It was impossible for me to enlighten him, and I said so.

“I guess you’re right,” the captain said. “The father’s come to look around, wi’ the idea of startin’ a mission. There ain’t enough of his religion hereabouts to make it a going concern.”

“Lots of half-breeds,” suggested the factor.

“Well, but they ain’t got religion. Maybe the father’ll be preaching some place to-night. I ain’t religious meself, but I like an opera, and I wonderful well like to hear a sermon, if there’s lots o’ blood and fire about it.”

“Say, Mister Petrie, are ye a Republican or a Democrat?” demanded the rasping voice I had almost come to ignore.

I turned to the mate, and assured him that I was neither.

“You’re a neutral, eh? Well, I don’t hold wi’ neutrality, which jest means scrappin’ wi’ everyone. I like to scrap for me own party.”

“Do I mind Joey Fagge? Why, course I do. There ain’t any old-timer who can’t tell you something ’bout him. He was the cutest ole Sam-Peter west, and they tell how he could smell out gold, same as these miracle chaps down south fetch water outer the ground, or shoot it outer the sky, or some such durned trick. No one knows where he finished, though I’ve heard tell how he got caught in a storm on this very lake and was drownded.”

“Did he die rich?”

“Ever heard of a miner who did?” said the captain, laughing hoarsely. “Last time I saw Joey he was flyin’ off the handle in Main Street, Fort Garry. Seems some American chap had bested him upon a real-estate bargain, an’ the old man took that sort of thing bad. He was a good-natured ole chap too. I know that, ’cause I was in Garry time of the boom, and I know a yarn if you want to listen.”

The mate was besieging my ear, but my attention was not for him. I edged towards Bob Lennie, that I might hear all I could concerning the man my father had been accused of murdering.

“A young Englishman came inter Garry ’bout the middle of the fun,” went on the captain. “Ye see, he fancied he was goin’ to look out for a job, but when he saw the cash an’ champagne-water a-flowin’ around, an’ found lots o’ folks happy to stand him drinks and leave him the change if he wanted it, he started to quit his thoughts of work, an’ surmised he’d struck an almightily soft way of living. Time came, of course, when he found himself gettin’ left dry on the rocks, an’ as he hadn’t near enough at the week-end to fix up his hotel bill, he nat’rally walked into the bar at mornin’ wi’ the idea of runnin’ outer what he _had_ got. After takin’ a doctor’s prescription, he moved ’way up the street, spoilin’ for excitement, an’ presently he pulled up at Central Hall, where a big real-estate sale was going on. The boy’s brain must have ben a bit in wool, ’cause he started biddin’ for a parcel of land, and sudden-like the lot was knocked down to him. D’rectly he found the other fellers had quit, you can believe me he made back to the hotel, to find out a cool place to set down in; but call me what you like, Mac, if a chap didn’t come round, jest as fast as his legs would bring him, to offer to take the property off the boy’s hands at the price it had ben knocked down. And he hadn’t time to call this chap his brother before up came another, wi’ two or three more ’most tumblin’ after him, an’ every one cappin’ the offer of the man before him. A boom had struck that bit of property sudden, an’ it had ben knocked down before the bis’ness fellers could get around to Central Hall. Course the young chap was ready to scream, but he had the sense to pretend hatin’ to part wi’ the property, an’ he hung on until he got a wonderful big price, they say. Nobody worried over a few extra hundreds those days. Well, I saw him later on, an’ old man Fagge was drinking champagne-water wi’ him, an’ talkin’ to him like a father, an’ advisin’ him to stuff his valise, an’ make east outer the racket, before he flung away that pile he’d jest made by the biggest and almightiest hunk of luck outside creation.”

“Did he go?” I broke in.

“I guess so,” said Bob Lennie. “Anyhow, I never saw him around no more. Now, I call that real good of ole Joey to advise that young fool to get home, when he’d the brain to get all that pile inter his own pocket. Put that down on the credit side when anyone starts slingin’ things ’gainst old man’s character, I say.”

At the Tecumseh House, where Father Lacombe was also staying, we learnt at dinner that the priest was unwell.

“Got what he calls a chill,” announced the proprietor, adding, “He can keep it while he stops here. He won’t spend nothing for the good of the house.”

After the mid-day meal we went up to the room which we shared between us, closed the door, and sat on our respective shake-downs, there being no chairs, to discuss business. We had brought over from the Yellow Sands store the greater part of our supplies and tools, but there were still necessary articles to be added to our packs, and these were all obtainable at Gull. MacCaskill was paying my expenses as well as his own, and now that I began to understand the meaning of the thin slips of paper which he smoothed and fingered so deliberately, I felt uncomfortable at being dependent upon his savings, the more so when he said, “We’ll want to be careful, Rupe. The bank ain’t any too muscular.”

I suggested that we should camp out upon the mainland for the remainder of our time; but my partner demurred, because he thought it advisable to watch and wait in Gull.

“You’ve got brains, boy,” the factor went on.

“Where do you say Redpath is?”

I thought awhile before replying shortly, “Here.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’ all the time. Olaffson and he are hidin’ some place, and I guess they’re spyin’ upon us. How are they going to cross Lake Peace? They won’t have the gall to face us on the _Carillon_.”

I suggested that, as they had stolen a canoe from Yellow Sands, they might make away with one of the steam-tugs used at Gull to take out the lumber scows.

“Takin’ a tug outer Gull ain’t the same trick as stealin’ a canoe from a nitchi camp. There’s too many folks around, and they might be hanged for stealin’ hereabouts.”

“I should know that canoe again,” I said, and well I might, for I had paddled Akshelah in it many a time. “It’s not around here.”

“Pshaw! They’d have broke it up, and used it on the camp fire. Professional rascals don’t take risks. Look-a-here! We’ve got the nickels to stand this racket, but after we’ve bought our cornmeal, an’ bacon, an’ dried fruit, an’ a few little tools, an’ paid our passage across, we won’t have a lot to gamble with. The best we can do is to move along easy, watchin’ and not worryin’, and if Redpath’s on the ground when we strike it, there’ll be a fight if he’s awkward. If we can fix up things so as to work our claims apart, without scrappin’, that’s our line. If Redpath won’t have that, it’s throw up hands, and the best partners scoop the pool.”

Then the factor produced a pack of cards, and we played poker, and after that went to sleep upon our shake-downs.

It was almost dark when we awoke, and took to smoking to pass the time. Rain was still beating, but the wind had lessened, and a wet mist hung over the lake. It was cold, and I felt miserable; MacCaskill looked depressed, and we were both silent. Thus an hour of unutterable dreariness dragged away.

MacCaskill coughed suddenly, opened the box-stove, spat into it, and flung away the stub of his cigar.

“Swallowed a bit of leaf,” he growled. “Sets a man ’gainst smokin’ for a while.” He laughed grimly, and rubbed his hands. “Cheer up, Rupe; it’s Sunday, lad.”

“What about it?” I asked, for I had never been brought to look upon one day as different from another, apart from good or foul weather.

“Why, on Sunday evenings I gen’rally get as dolesome as a gibcat. Mem’ries, I guess, but you ain’t got enough past to make any of them. When I was away in the bush I kep’ track of the days easy. Whenever a fit of the megrims came on ’bout lights down, I’d know ’twas Sunday. It gen’rally worked out right. I come out clean and fresh Monday morning, but Sunday night I get hipped reg’lar. Say! What’ll you do, if old man’s notion pans out?”

“Follow your lead,” I said.

I expected the old fellow to laugh, but the dolesome fit was on him, and he became more surly than ever.

“I went home ’bout eight winters ago,” he said morosely.

I saw that he was in the mood to talk, so I settled myself to listen.

“I went home,” he repeated. “Away east to St. Catherine’s. That’s in Ontario, and ’twas a daisy of a place when I was your number. I went home. D’rectly ye shift outer any place ye get forgotten. See? Rainin’ yet, I guess?”

“Yes, it’s still raining,” I said.

“Well, it’ll do no harm, maybe. You see, when you come back to an old home ye expect to find a place kep’ for ye. Understand?” He gave me no time to reply. “Well now, I left St. Catherine’s when I was a younker, and got a post north in the Company. ’Twas a far better thing then than ’tis to-day, and I reckoned I’d stop a few years, make a leetle pile, come home when I was thirty, and marry Maimie Flett, who was waitin’ for me. Pretty little gal, Maimie. Had a way of lookin’ at me sideways. She was goin’ to wait for me. Wind’s comin’ up again, I guess?”

“Maybe,” I said, though I had not noticed any change.

“You see, those years got slippin’ away as though they’d ben oiled for it. I worked steady, an’ I saved a bit, but that pile seemed to be awful slow in mountin’ up. Life was in front of me, anyhow, and I said, ‘No matter, there’s a fine time a-comin’.’ I wasn’t going east, not till I was able to marry Maimie. The years got tumblin’ along one over the other so quick, Rupe, and Maimie she writ slower, and then she quit. Must have ben tiresome for the gal, and she hadn’t leisure like me, maybe.” The factor stopped, bent, and rubbed his leg.

“You went home?” I suggested.

He repeated the words after me slowly.

“Came upon me one day sudden,” he went on. “Me muscles had always ben good and worked easy, and I was comfortable in the wind, and right on me food and sleep. One evening, I mind it was wet and cold, I made to pick up a log to carry in to bucksaw. I just gave it a good heave on to me shoulder, and hot snakes jumped right through me, and run all along me back, and I let that log drop. I couldn’t have carried that log, Rupe, not if it had ben a bar of gold. You see, I was comin’ on fifty, an’ that pain was rheumatics. Old man had ’em bad, and you mind how Antoine used to rub him wi’ some of his medicine truck. That night I got smokin’, same as usual, in the Fort, and I stopped over it longer, ’cause I’d taken a new pipe from the store, and a new pipe smokes longer than the old ’un, and I got seein’ the smoke a-twistin’ around, and presently I seemed to see Maimie, and she was lookin’ at me sideways, and she was sayin’, ‘Why! ’tis never you, Andy! They’ll be callin’ you “old man” when you come down to St. Catherine’s.’ You see, Rupe, I’d got an old chap sudden, an’ I found it out sudden-like.”

I had nothing to say to this, because I was young and strong.

“You miss life by waitin’ for it, Rupe. You’ve got to take, an’ never wait. I took me leave anyhow, and went east to see the old place again. I was a sort of fool, ’cause I reckoned to find things same as I minded ’em, and Maimie a little bit of a gal, wi’ a way of lookin’ at me sideways. I came in on the Grand Trunk, and I got out at the depôt, and stood lonesome, and peeked around, jest as awkward as a fly in a glass of beer. You see, I’d known everyone in St. Catherine’s my time. I said to a feller, ‘What’s the name of this place, anyhow?’ and he said, ‘St. Catherine’s, stranger,’ and that took the wind outer me. ’Twas an almighty big town, an’ I’d left a village; an’ the valley was choked wi’ buildings, like summer fallow wi’ Russian thistle, an’ there wasn’t any folks to mind Andy MacCaskill. There wasn’t a face to gimme a smile, Rupe. Not an ole pard to call out, ‘Seems like ole times havin’ you around again.’ That’s what my goin’ home was.”

“And what about the girl?” I said.

“Never heard tell of her,” answered the factor morosely.

His mood changed in a moment, and we sprang together from our shake-downs. Above the beating of the rain and the wind, above the shouts of the drinkers below, came the noise of a nearer scuffle, with the brutal laugh of coarse men, the tread of heavy boots, and a feminine voice, half pleading, half in anger. There were no women in Gull!

The passage was gloomy, because evening was closing, and there was only one window to give light, but I had no need to look twice to see a girl, her head and fine hair half-wrapped in a dripping shawl, and this girl struggling in the hands of a half-drunk crowd of lumbermen, shouting their rough jests and brutal suggestions. A beautiful girl in the camp of Gull!

I knew her before I could see her face, and when I did see her rain-marked features, they were more beautiful than ever. She was my faithful maid, my Akshelah!

She put out an arm, the other was held, and called to me:

“I have followed; I have followed, and it has been hard!”

The factor’s story of his life was hot upon my ears, and I heard him saying, “You’ve got to take, and never wait.”

I acted upon this precept. I scattered that rough gang, and sent the men reeling back each way. I rescued Akshelah, swung her lithe figure into our room, where MacCaskill stood bewildered, and stood in the doorway, my arms out, holding at defiance the lumber station of Gull.

AN AFFAIR WITH JAKE PETERSSEN

It had often been my lot to fight the animals and the elements, but now for the first time I faced my fellow-creatures, every one my superior in experience of the world, and every one apparently my inferior in muscle. As I glanced them over I knew that I was strong enough to break most of them up like so many corn-stalks. I could have shouted as depression left me, and glorious life throbbed along every muscle of each limb. There was not a weak spot in my body. My eye was so true that a man might have indicated a spot twenty feet distant and I could have jumped cleanly upon that mark. I was exhilarated as I stood in the doorway, with the whole camp against me. I was soon to learn how fickle a crowd can be.

Behind me stood Akshelah, so that her breath caressed my neck. I put out my hand and pushed her back. The factor stood against the side wall, peering into the passage, fetching breath suddenly.

“I guess you’ll quit, an’ give over the gal, stranger,” a big-bodied man confronted and advised me.

“She’s mine,” I said, and I was glad to find my voice steady and clear.

“She’s come around here,” went on the representative of public opinion. “An’ now she’s a-comin’ down to the saloon to dance to us.”

“I’ll see you all darned,” I said quietly.

A babel of tongues hummed round my head. A mighty shadow appeared to fall, and for one moment I cooled and weakened. A huge negro pushed aside the big-bodied man, and stood within hand-grip of me. He was a hideous creature, his face scarred, his front teeth gone, one ear frozen off, and when he moved I saw that his mighty body was supple and packed with muscle. He wore a loose cotton shirt and white pants, which exaggerated his great size. This apparition glowed upon me with small malevolent eyes, and said:

“’Pears like, stranger, you forgot hittin’ dis chile. Hit him on de nose an’ eye. You take what you give, eh?”

I understood that I was being challenged, and replied: “I guess.”

“You gimme de gal, an’ stop de trubble?” suggested the fearful creature.

I merely replied: “She’s mine.”

“That’s so, boys,” bellowed the revived factor. “The gal’s his, and she followed down here to find him. Where I come from, a feller’s got a right to his own gal.”

“He knocked us around,” said a voice.

“Hit me on de nose an’ eye,” repeated the negro. “No man hit dis chile, an’ not git it back. I’m ready fo’ you.” He slapped his arm. “No knives, no shootin’. Jest strip an’ scrap, and de best scrapper take de gal.”

“I’m ready,” I said.

Old MacCaskill was at my elbow, and Akshelah between us. My partner was cold with excitement.

“The boys’ll be just, Rupe, if you show devil,” he whispered. “It’s Jake Peterssen you’ve got to fight, and they say he’s never ben bested. Keep quiet, and don’t waste yourself. Get at his neck, if you can, and if you can’t, get at the side of his jaw. Mind that--mind, the side of the jaw hard.”

The saw-mills were stopping, because the gloom of the night hung around Gull. The news flew about like thistle seed in a windy fall. The mob surged and shouted round us, as we passed from Tecumseh House into the cold rain, and down to a long shed used for meetings and dances, on the brink of the high rocks that made an eyebrow to the lake. The wind howled round this exposed spot, and I could hear the beat of the waves, the lash of clouds of spray, and the sullen song of the shifting shingle, while the crowd poured in to take up their stand on tables and barrels, and a score of greasy lanterns were being lighted and hoisted to the roof. The floor was of well-trodden soil, and while we were being made ready a procession of men appeared with sacks of lake sand, which they poured and levelled upon the space reserved for the fight. I was shivering from head to foot, but it was with excitement and muscular strength, not fear. Akshelah was as white as the sand, and MacCaskill looked eighty when he began to strip me.

“This ain’t like knockin’ down Redpath,” he muttered hoarsely. “Keep his fist outer your neck and jaw, an’ mind your stomach. Love o’ Heaven, mind your stomach! If he touches your wind you’ve got to go down.”

A couple of coarse-faced men came up, chewing tobacco.

“Out er the way, old man,” said one.

They took me in hand, stripped me to the waist; and one of them took off his belt and strapped me, saying, as he pulled it in:

“Shout when it starts to pinch.”

When I was stripped I found myself the centre of a great deal of attention. My skin was fair and hairless, my arms so slight, that I could have felt ashamed of my appearance; indeed, at first I thought my examiners were bent upon ridicule, as first one horny hand and then another patted my chest and pinched my forearm or the back of my leg. But it was not so.

One man, with a sharp, pinched face, turned from me, expectorated, and remarked to the negro:

“If he gits a fair holt on yer, Jake, mercy on yer soul! He ain’t got one ounce of fat under all his skin.”

My opponent’s arms were like trunks of trees, and his neck resembled a polished iron cylinder. When I looked at him I thought that if I should get at his neck I should do nothing but tear the skin off my knuckles.

We were oiled from chin to waist with fresh fish-oil, and then the Master of Ceremonies came out and told me the rules. Anything above the waist was fair fight, either catching or hitting, except kicking and biting, and the use of the nails. The catch might be made with the hand or the arm, but the hit only with the clenched fist. There would be no intervals, and the fight would continue until one of us should be disabled for twenty-five seconds.

The hubbub was indescribable; but once it dropped, when a startling black figure, well wrapped up, pushed in quietly. It was Father Lacombe; and a great shout uprose when it became published that the priest had come with no idea of interference, but to see fair play.

The voices went up again, shouting out bets or making jests, until I took my stand opposite my gigantic opponent, and then they dropped to deep murmurs and whisperings which, when the word had been given, became merely deep and long breathings. The familiar beat of the wind and waves cheered me from outside.

Akshelah stood unmolested beside MacCaskill, and I knew no one would take any notice of her until the fight was done. There was a certain morality in the camp of Gull. If I won, the girl would be resigned to me, and not a man would insult her; if I lost, the camp at Yellow Sands would mourn for her as one who had passed away from them.

The negro and I stood watching one another, each starting in response to any movement on the other’s part. His great body shone in the lamplight, and the oil glistened on his outstretched arms. There was a knife scar where his neck came to the shoulder above the collar-bone, and I determined to hit that if I had the chance. It makes a man wince to feel an old wound struck. I was magnificently cool; my excitement had passed, and my brain was as clear as my own little river of Yellow Sands.

With a surprisingly rapid motion the negro dashed upon me, and I bent, when he made feint with his right arm, and met the crashing blow of his left fist with my forearm.

A cold, numbing sensation raced through me, but I swung my arm sharply, and the pain was gone in an instant; and springing up, I caught the great body and cannoned against it, swinging him round.

He fell on his knee; but this was a trick, for when I pressed on he came up and opened himself by hitting me full in the shoulder, and I staggered back, but steadied myself in time.

Again we stood facing each other as at first, only breathing a little faster.

It was my turn to make the advance, and I did so, making sure of every foothold in the sand. The negro worked round as I came on, and I hovered in front of him, until I became fascinated by a grotesque face which had been tattooed upon his chest. It seemed to me that I had two adversaries to contend with, the negro and his mascott. After dodging I slipped round sharply, sprang into the air, hitting away his arm, and had him gripped by the waist, his right arm fastened to his side. Silence was broken for the first time as we swung together, I trying to capture his free arm, and he endeavouring to stun me with it. While this arm was upraised I hit him upon the scar as well as I could at close quarters, then dashed my head to one side, striking his flat face with my cheek, and avoiding at the same time the blow which just grazed my shoulder. Hanging on, I dashed my knee into his stomach, but in doing so lost my hold. He got in a blow upon my forehead that knocked me to the sand. I was up, literally at a rebound, and just in time to avoid another blow, which, if successful, would have ended the contest. We stood again as at first, and I heard a far-away voice mutter, “Waste him, yer young fool!”

I was grateful for the hint. Unless I came to receive a knock-down blow, I could last for ever. I had no waste flesh to carry. I was hard and sound, while my adversary was heavy, and comparatively short of wind. He had drunk plenty of corn whisky in his time, while my system was entirely free from alcohol. I could see his great neck palpitating already, and his mouth was open. Obviously I was wasting myself by trying to throw his massive bulk. I determined to make him move, and to wait for the opportunity of reaching his windpipe. So I came to close quarters and kept at my opponent, worrying him like a dog, and he watched me with his small, half-closed eyes, and hit at me with his superior science while I skirmished, doubtless with the hope that one of these mighty blows might reach the fatal spot and lay me out. But I was too careful of the vital parts, and though the heavy hammering on my shoulders jarred and weakened me, I retained my presence of mind and kept my system, and stayed by him, always feigning an attack, but never wearing myself by striking. His dark hands were stained with my blood, which I could feel trickling over my face. I had to wipe it away from my eyes, knowing what nobody else did, that I was as strong as at the beginning, and the letting of a little blood would do me good after the forced inaction of the past few days.

“Jake’s winnin’!” shouted a triumphant voice, though I had lost sight of all spectators. “Drinks to the crowd on Jake.”

“Take yer,” called another. “Listen at the breathin’. The young ’un ain’t in trouble, an’, be Heaven, he could throw a locomotive.”

I backed, and the negro followed, lurching and lunging at me every step. Round the ring we went three times, until I did not know whether the noise in my ears came from the spectators or from the lake outside. The negro’s eyes were two shining slits, and his hideous face wore an expression of stolid satisfaction, as he kept coming upon me, his fists beating and sounding on my bruised arms. He thought he was winning as he liked; I could not stand before him; he had only to break down my hard arms, and then he could smash his fist into my jaw and end the fight. He grinned exultantly when I began to gasp, but I was fooling him. I could breathe as well that way, and I gasped to let him think that I was distressed. I was as fresh as ever, and went back dancing lightly on my toes, every muscle true and elastic. But my opponent was too seasoned a fighter to grow careless. He kept smiting at me, without giving me a chance to smite back. He was exhausting himself, but he imagined, I believe, that I was at least as much spent as himself.

His opportunity came. I trod on the side of my foot, and was almost off my balance. The negro came upon me like a cyclone, and the yells in my ears resembled a February blizzard. There was no avoiding that black thunderbolt, and it seemed to me on an instant that my head might be wrenched from its trunk. A sick feeling stabbed me; my brain spun round like a wheel; every tooth ached violently, and a horrible hand seemed to clutch at and twist my spine. He had reached my jaw. Another half-inch, and I should have gone down, unconscious, perhaps a cripple for life.

The revelry around took voice, and went up with a shout, “The boy’s bested!”

I recovered in time to ward off the following blow and the negro gripped me, but I drew in my breath and escaped, his hands gliding off my well-oiled flesh, and again I ran back, my adversary following to finish me, and we were both breathing furiously.

Then a clear silver voice rang out and came upon my ears, like the note of the wavy telling its promise of spring.

“_Naspich milwashiu! Sakehanou!_”

It was the cry of the Dance of Friendship.

Again I heard the drone and whirr of the drums, the soft wind sighing in the trees. Again I saw the pale moon over the clearing, and the stars looking down, as we excitedly paced the measure round and round the fires of the lodge, our hands aloft, our hearts throbbing, our eyes flashing as they met, exchanging the vow of eternal fellowship. I snorted like a horse when he smells the coming bush fire. I sprang out, feeling a giant’s strength idealised in my body, and closing with the negro, I threw him, while the ground seemed to shake and reel about me. The madness of that strength given by the dance! As he started up I was on him, and beating down his ponderous arms smote him upon the neck, and he fell again with a rattle and a gurgle in his throat. But I could do no more, for when a man comes to his end he must stop.

We were three paces apart, each of us bent, and the negro spat blood into the sand. I could not see Akshelah, but I could guess the look of triumph on her pale, beautiful face, and I could also imagine MacCaskill biting his moustache, his arms twitching, his eyes wet with excitement.

“Get on!” the voices yelled madly, and instinctively I felt that the majority were addressing themselves to me, because I had won their sympathy. My blood trickling into my mouth revived me. I wiped my hands in the sand, and came forward towards the black, palpitating mass of flesh, while the lumbermen shouted, and sweated, and swore, letting loose their passions in the delirium of watching ours.

The negro gathered himself to meet me, and again his huge arms came out. The oily sweat rolled off his body, and his legs staggered under his bulk. I resumed my former tactics of drawing him on, but he saw my design and baulked me. He refused to act any longer upon the offensive. Unless I would have him recover himself, I should have to attack. I came at him, struck, and stepped back; my arms were longer than his. When he hit back, I jumped round to his side, bent when his arm swung round, and hit him on the remnant of his frozen ear. He growled fiercely, the first exclamation he had made, and snatched at me, but I was away, and came with the persistency of a mosquito to his other side, and so continued, until he was unsteady, and his dry tongue sought moisture from his lips.

Suddenly he gave a great groan, and bore down upon me, his arms working like hammers. Round and round he beat me by sheer weight, like a dog-wolf wearing down a jack-rabbit, and the blows came so fast that I could not distinguish one arm from another.

I defended as best I could, knowing this could not last, and once he had almost done me, because my eyes were blinded with blood. Every breath seemed to be giving him pain, and I was gasping in sheer earnest, and my arms were so heavy that I appeared to be holding great weights in my hands.