An adventurer of the north : being a continuation of the histories of "Pierre and his people," and the latest existing records of Pretty Pierre

. Gilben

. . -

orth

AN ADVENTURER OF THE
NORTH

AN ADVENTURER
OF THE NORTH

BEING A CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORIES

OF "PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE." AND

THE LATEST EXISTING RECORDS

OF PRETTY PIERRE

BY

GILBERT PARKER

,

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON

BOOKS BY
GILBERT PARKER

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS

THE WORLD FOR SALE. Illustrated. Post 8vo

THE MONEY MASTER. Illustrated. Post 8vo

THE JUDGMENT HOUSE. Illustrated. Post 8vo

CUMNER'S SON. lj<,st. ovo

NORTHERN LIGHTS. Illustrated. Post 8vo

THE WEAVERS. Illustrated. Post 8vo

THE RIGHT OF WAY. Illustrated. Post 8vo

A LADDER OF SWORDS. Illustrated. Post 8vo

THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING. Post 8vo

THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. Post 8vo

AN ADVENTURER OF THE NORTH. 16mo

A LOVER'S DIARY. (Pooms). IGmo

PIERRE AND HIS PEOPLE. 16mo

A ROMANY OF THE SNOWS. 16mo

WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC. 13mo

(PUBLISHED ELSEWHERE)

MRS. FALCHION

THE TRESPASSER

THE TRANSLATION OF A SAVAGE

THE TRAIL OF THE SWORD

THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY

THE POMP OF THE LAVILETTES

DONOVAN PASTIA

YOU NEVER KNOW YOUR LUCK

EMBERS. (Poc-ms)

OLD QUEBEC. (History— In collaboration with C. G. Bryan)

ROUND THE COMPASS IN AUSTRALIA (Travel)

THE WORLD IN THE CRUCIBLE(Study of the Wax)

Copyright, 1895, by STONB AND KIMBALI.

Copyright, iSyS, by THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
v-x.

TO SIR WILLIAM C. VAN HORNE.

DEAR SIR WILLIAM:

To the public it will seem fitting that these
tales should be inscribed to one whose notable career
is closely associated with the life and development
of the Far North.

But there are other and more personal reasons for
this dedication; for some of the stories were begotten
in midnight gossip by your fireside: furthermore, it
gives my little book a sort of distinction to have on
its fore-page the name of so well-known a connoisseur
in art and lover of literature.
Believe me, dear Sir William,

Very sincerely yours,

GILBERT PARKER

7 PARK PLACE,

ST. JAMES'S s. w.

THE AUTUMN, 1895.

222S814

Contents

ACROSS THE JUMPING SANDHILLS I

A LOVELY BULLY l£

THE FILIBUSTER 38

THE GIFT OF THE SIMPLE KING 6l

MALACHI 87

THE LAKE OF THE GREAT SLAVE 99

THE RED PATROL I2O

THE GOING OF THE WHITE SWAN 135

AT BAMBER'S BOOM 162

THE BRIDGE HOUSE 174

THE EPAULETTES Ig6

THE FINDING OF FINGALL 2O/

An Adventurer of the North

Across the Jumping Sandhills

I

"Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands
I 've seen along the sayshore, and up to me half-
ways I 've been in wan, wid a double-an'-twist
in the rope to pull me out ; but a suckin' sand
in the open plain — aw, Trader, aw! the like o'
that niver a bit saw I."

So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing
was talked of in his presence.

"Well, I tell you it 's true, and they 're not
three miles from Fort O'Glory. The Com-
pany's* men do n't talk about it — what 's the
use ? Travellers are few that way, and you can 't
get the Indians within miles of them. Pretty
Pierre knows all about them, better than anyone
else almost. He'll stand by me in it — eh,
Pierre?"

* The Hudson's Bay Company.
I

2 An Adventurer of the North

Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adven-
turer, took no notice, and was silent for a time,
intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mow-
ley the trapper said : " Pierre's gone back on
you, Trader. P'r'aps ye have n't paid him for
the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me —
my treat — that 's the game ! "

"Aw, the like o' that," added Macavoy re-
proachfully. "Aw, yer tongue to the roof o' yer
mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but
that's wid wimmin or landlords. But, Pierre —
aff another man's bat like that — aw, Mowley, fill
yer mouth wid the bowl o' yer pipe !"

Pierre now looked up at the three men, roll-
ing another cigarette as he did so ; but he seemed
to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting the
three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held
them for a moment musingly; then he lit his
cigarette, and, half-reclining on the bench where
he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire,
as it were.

"I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company's
post there. It was the fall of the year, when you
feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the
air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like
a woman or a priest ? Mais, no. The seasons
are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad ;
in the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to

Across the Jumping Sandhills 3

do. This matter was in the fall. I felt that I
must move. Yet, what to do ? There was the
thing. Cards, of course. But that 's only for
times, not for all seasons. So I was like a wild
dog on a chain. I had a good horse — Tophet,
black as a coal, all raw bones and joint, and a
reach like a moose. His legs worked like pis-
ton-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where
to go or what to do. So we used to sit at the
Post loafing : in the daytime watching the empty
plains all panting for travellers, like a young
bride waiting her husband for the first time."

Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He
had an unctuous spirit, and his heart was soft for
women — so soft that he never had had one on his
conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles
off the lips of many. But that was an amiable
weakness in a strong man. "Aw, Pierre," he
said coaxingly, "kape it down; aisy, aisy! me
heart 's goin' like a trip-hammer at thought av
it; aw yis, yis, Pierre!"

"Well, it was like that to me — all sun and a
sweet sting in the air. At night to sit and tell
tales and such things ; and perhaps a little brown
brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the
cattle — the same old game. Of course, there
was the wife of Hilton the factor — fine, always
fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good

4 An Adventurer of the North

friends, Ida and me. I had a hand in her wed-
ding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little
girl. We could talk together by signs. She was
a good woman ; she had never guessed at evil.
She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and
understand without words. A face was a book
to her.

"Eh Men. One afternoon we were all stand-
ing outside the Post, when we saw someone ride
over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes.
I cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were
so sharp and clear-cut against the sky, that they
looked very large and peculiar — there was some-
thing in the air to magnify. They stopped for
a minute on the top of the Divide, and it seemed
like a messenger out of the strange country at
the farthest north — the place of legends. But,
of course, it was only a traveller like ourselves,
for in a half-hour she was with us.

"Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She
did not try to hide it ; she dressed so for ease.
She would make a man's heart leap in his mouth
— if he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley
there."

Pierre's last three words had a touch of irony,
for he knew that the Trapper had a precious
tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed
that way, and a bad name with women to give it

Across the Jumping Sandhills 5

point. Mowley smiled sourly; but Macavoy
laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his
pipe-stem luxuriously.

"Aw now, Pierre — all me little failin's — aw ! "
he protested.

Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning
upon the other elbow, and, cherishing his cigar-
ette, presently continued :

" She had come far and was tired to death,
so stiff that she could hardly get from the saddle;
and the horse, too, was ready to drop. Hand-
some enough she looked, for all that, in man's
clothes and a peaked cap, with a pistol in her
belt. She was n't big built — mat's, a feathery
kind of sapling — but she was set fair on her legs
like a man, and a hand that was as good as I
have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with
a horse. Well, what was the trouble? — for I saw
there was trouble. Her eyes had a hunted look,
and her nose breathed like a deer's in the chase.
All at once, when she saw Hilton's wife, a cry
come from her and she reached out her hands.
What would women of that sort do? They were
both of a kind. They got into each other's
arms. After that there was nothing for us men
but to wait. All women are the same, and Hil-
ton's wife was like the rest. She must get the
secret first; then the men should know.

6 An Adventurer of the North

" We had to wait an hour. Then Hilton's
wife beckoned to us. We went inside. The
girl was asleep. There was something in the
touch of Hilton's wife like sleep itself — like
music. It was her voice — that touch. She could
not speak with her tongue, but her hands and
face were words and music. Bien, there was the
girl asleep, all clear of dust and stain: and that
fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet, so
quiet. Enfin, the real story — for how she slept
there does not matter — but it was good to see
when we knew the story."

The Trapper was laughing to himself to
hear Pierre in this romantic mood. A woman's
hand — it was the game for a boy, not an adven-
turer ; for the Trapper's only creed was, that
women, like deer, were spoils for the hunter.
Pierre's keen eye noted this, but he was above
petty anger. He merely said:

"If a man have an eye to see behind the
face, he understands the laugh of a fool, or
the hand of a good woman, and that is much.
Hilton's wife told us all. She had rode two
hundred miles from the south-west, and was
making for Fort Micah, sixty miles farther north.
For what? She had loved a man against the
will of her people. There had been a feud, and
Garrison — that was the lover's name — was the

Across the Jumping Sandhills 7

last on his own side. There was trouble at a
Company's post, and Garrison shot a half-breed.
Men say he was right to shoot him, for a wo-
man's name must be safe up here. Besides, the
half-breed drew first! Well, Garrison was tried,
and must go to jail for a year. At the end of
that time he would be free. The girl Janie
knew the day. Word had come to her. She
made everything ready. She knew her brothers
were watching — her three brothers and two other
men who had tried to get her love. She knew
also that they five would carry on the feud
against the one man. So one night she took
the best horse on the ranch and started away
toward Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she
got to Guidon Hill after two days' hard riding
— enough to kill a man, and over fifty yet to do.
She was sure her brothers were on her track.
But if she could get to Fort Micah, and be mar-
ried to Garrison before they came, she wanted
no more.

" There were only two horses of use at Hil-
ton's post then; all the rest were away, or not fit
for hard travel. There was my Tophet, and a
lean chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and
not an ounce of loose skin on him. There was
but one way: the girl must get there. Aliens,
what is the good! What is life without these

8 An Adventurer of the North

things! The girl loves the man : she must have
him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and
his wife and me at the Post, and Hilton was lame
from a fall and one arm in a sling. If the
brothers followed, well, Hilton could not inter-
fere— he was a Company's man ; but for myself,
as I said, I was hungry for adventure, I had an
ache in my blood for something. I was tingling
to the toes, my heart was thumping in my throat.
All the cords of my legs were straightening like
I was in the saddle.

" She slept for three hours. I got the two
horses saddled. Who could tell but she might
need help? I had nothing to do ; I knew the
shortest way to Fort Micah every foot — and
then it is good to be ready for all things. I told
Hilton's wife what I had done. She was glad.
She made a sign at me as to a brother; and then
began to put things in a bag for us to carry.
She had settled all how it was to be. She had
told the girl. You see, a man may be — what is
it they call me? — a plunderer, and yet a woman
will trust him, comma (a! "

" Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre ; but she knew yer
hand and yer tongue niver wint agin a woman,
Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw, swate, swate,
she was, wid a heart — a heart, Hilton's wife, aw
yis!"

Across the Jumping Sandhills 9

Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. " The
girl waked with a start after three hours. Her
hand caught at her heart. ' Oh,' she said, still
staring at us, ' I thought that they had come!'
A little after she and Hilton's wife went to
another room. All at once there was a sound of
horses outside, and then a knock at the door,
and four men come in. They were the girl's
hunters.

" It was hard to tell what to do all in a min-
ute; but I saw at once the best thing was to act
for all, and to get the men inside the house. So
I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that
I was a great man in the Company. I ordered
Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not
giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the
old brown brandy, wondering all the time what
could be done. There was no sound from the
other room, though I thought I heard a door
open once. Hilton played the game well, and
showed nothing when I ordered him about, and
agreed word for word with me when I said no
girl had come, laughing when they told why
they were after her. More than one of them did
not believe at first; but, pshaw, what have I been
doing all my life to let such fellows doubt me 1
So the end of it was that I got them all inside
the house. There was one bad thing — their

10 An Adventurer of the North

horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to me.
They had only rode them a few miles — they had
stole or bought them at the first ranch to the
west of the Post. I could not make up my
mind what to do. But it was clear I must keep
them quiet till something shaped.

"They were all drinking brandy when Hil-
ton's wife come into the room. Her face, man
Dieu! it was so innocent, so childlike. She stared
at the men ; and then I told them she was deaf
and dumb, and I told her why they had come.
Voila, it was beautiful — like nothing you ever
saw. She shook her head so simple, and then
told them like a child that they were wicked to
chase a girl. I could have kissed her feet.
Thunder, how she fooled them ! She said,
would they not search the house ? She said all
through me, on her fingers and by signs. And
I told them at once. But she told me some-
thing else — that the girl had slipped out as the
last man came in, had mounted the chestnut,
and would wait for me by the iron spring, a quar-
ter of a mile away. There was the danger that
some one of the men knew the finger talk, so she
told me this in signs mixed up with other sen-
tences.

" Good! There was now but one thing — for
me to get away. So I said, laughing, to one of

Across the Jumping Sandhills 1 1

the men, 'Come, and we will look after the
horses, and the others can search the place with
Hilton.' So we went out to where the horses
were tied to the railing, and led them away to
the corral.

" Of course you will understand how I did it.
I clapped a hand on his mouth, put a pistol at
his head, and gagged and tied him. Then I got
my Tophet, and away I went to the spring. The
girl was waiting. There were few words. I
gripped her hand, gave her another pistol, and
then we got away on a fine moonlit trail. We
had not gone a mile when I heard a faint yell
far behind. My game had been found out.
There was nothing to do but to ride for it now,
and maybe to fight. But fighting was not good ;
for I might be killed, and then the girl would be
caught just the same. We rode on — such a ride,
the horses neck and neck, their hoofs pounding
the prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, a
hell-to-split gait. I knew they were after us,
though I saw them but once on the crest of a
Divide about three miles behind. Hour after
hour like that, with ten minutes' rest now and
then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We
hardly spoke to each other ; but, God of love 1
my heart was warm to this girl who had rode a
hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours.

12 An Adventurer of the North

Just before dawn, when I was beginning to think
that we would easy win the race if the girl could
but hold out, if it did not kill her, the chestnut
struck a leg into the crack of the prairie, and
horse and girl spilt on the ground together. She
could hardly move, she was so weak, and her
face was like death. I put a pistol to the chest-
nut's head, and ended it. The girl stooped and
kissed the poor beast's neck, but spoke nothing.
As I helped her on my Tophet I put my lips to
the sleeve of her dress. Mother of Heaven !
what could a man do ? she was so dam' brave !

"Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at
the swell of the prairie over the Jumping Sand-
hills. They lay quiet and shining in the green-
brown plain; but I knew that there was a churn
beneath which could set those swells of sand in
motion, and make Glory-to-God of an army.
Who can tell what it is ? A flood under the
surface, a tidal river — what? No man knows.
But they are sea monsters on the land. Every
morning at sunrise they begin to eddy and roll
— and who ever saw a stranger sight ? Bien, I
looked back. There were those four pirates
coming on, about three miles away. What was
there to do? The girl and myself on my blown
horse were too much. Then a great idea come
to me. I must reach and cross the Jumping

Across the Jumping Sandhills 13

Sandhills before sunrise. It was one deadly
chance.

" When we got to the edge of the sand they
were almost a mile behind. I was all sick to my
teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the silt.
God! how I watched the dawn! Slow, slow, we
dragged over that velvet powder. As we reached
the farther side I could feel it was beginning to
move. The sun was showing like the lid of an
eye along the plain. I looked back. All four
horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards
us. By the time we touched the brown-green
prairie on the farther side the sand was rolling
behind us. The girl had not looked back. She
was too dazed. I jumped from the horse, and
told her that she must push on alone to the
Fort, that Tophet could not carry both, that I
should be in no danger. She looked at me so
deep — ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped and
kissed me between the eyes — I have never for-
got. I struck Tophet, and she was gone to her
happiness; for before 'lights out!' she reached
the Fort and her lover's arms.

"But I stood looking back on the Jumping
Sandhills. So, was there ever a sight like that
— those hills gone like a smelting-floor, the sun-
rise spotting it with rose and yellow, and three
horses and their riders fighting what cannot be

14 An Adventurer of the North

fought? — What could I do? They would have
got the girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led
them across, and they would have killed me if
they could. Only one cried out, and then but
once, in a long shriek. But after, all three were
quiet as they fought, until they were gone where
no man could see, where none cries out so we
can hear. The last thing I saw was a hand
stretching up out of the sand."

There was a long pause, painful to bear. The
Trader sat with eyes fixed humbly as a dog's on
Pierre. At last Macavoy said:

"She kissed ye, Pierre, aw yis; she did that!
Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her now,
Pierre ? "

But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer.

A Lovely Bully

He was seven feet and fat. He came to Fort
O'Angel at Hudson's Bay, an immense slip of a
lad, very much in the way, fond of horses, a won-
derful hand at wrestling, pretending a horrible
temper, threatening tragedies for all who differed
from him, making the Fort quake with his rich
roar, and playing the game of bully with a fine
simplicity. In winter he fattened, in summer he
sweated, at all times he ate eloquently.

It was a picture to see him with the undercut
of a haunch of deer or buffalo, or with a whole
prairie-fowl on his plate, his eyes measuring it
shrewdly, his coat and waistcoat open, and a
clear space about him — for he needed room to
stretch his mighty limbs, and his necessity was
recognized by all.

Occasionally he pretended to great ferocity,
but scowl he ever so much, a laugh kept idling
in his irregular bushy beard, which lifted about
his face in the wind like a mane, or made a kind
of underbrush through which his blunt fingers
ran at hide-and-seek.

IS

1 6 An Adventurer of the North

He was Irish, and his name was Macavoy.
In later days, when Fort O'Angel was invaded
by settlers, he had his time of greatest impor-
tance.

He had been useful to the Chief Trader at
the Fort in the early days, and having the run
of the Fort and the reach of his knife at table,
was little likely to discontinue his adherence.
But he ate and drank with all the dwellers at
the Post, and abused all impartially.

"Malcolm," said he to the Trader, "Malcolm,
me glutton o' the H.B.C., that wants the Far
North for your footstool — Malcolm, you villain,
it 's me grief that I know you, and me thumb to
me nose in token !"

Wiley and Hatchett, the principal settlers, he
abused right and left, and said, " Was n't there
land in the East and West, that ye steal the
country God made for honest men ? — ye rob-
bers of the wide world ! Me tooth on the Book,
and I tell you what, it 's only me charity that
kapes me from spoilin' ye. For a wink of me
eye, an' away you 'd go, leaving your tails behind
you — and pass that shoulder of bear, ye pirates,
till I come to it side-ways, like a hog to war!"

He was even less sympathetic with Bareback,
the chief, and his braves. "Sons o' Anak y' are;
here to-day and away to-morrow, like the clods

A Lovely Bully 17

of the valley — and that 's yer portion, Bareback.
It 's the word o' the Pentytook — in pieces you
go, like a potter's vessel. Do n't shrug your
shoulders at me, Bareback, you pig, or you '11
think that Ballzeboob 's loose on the mat ! But
take a sup o' this whisky, while you shwear wid
your hand on your chist, 'Amin' to the words o'
Tim Macavoy!"

Beside Macavoy, Pierre the notorious, was a
child in height. Up to the time of the half-
breed's coming the Irishman had been the most
outstanding man at Fort O'Angel, and was sure
of a good-natured homage, acknowledged by
him with a jovial tyranny.

Pierre put a flea in his ear. He was pen-
sively indifferent to him even in his most royal
moments. He guessed the way to bring down
the gusto and pride of this Goliath, but, for a
purpose, he took his own time, nodding indo-
lently to Macavoy when he met him, but avoid-
ing talk with him.

Among the Indian maidens Macavoy was like
a king or khan ; for they count much on bulk
and beauty, and he answered to their standards
— especially to Wonta's. It was a sight to see
him of a summer day, sitting in the shade of a
pine, his shirt open, showing his firm brawny
chest, his arms bare, his face shining with per-

1 8 An Adventurer of the North

spiration, his big voice gurgling in his beard, his
eyes rolling amiably upon the maidens as they
passed or gathered near demurely, while he de-
claimed of mighty deeds in patois or Chinook to
the braves.

Pierre's humour was of the quietest, most
subterranean kind. He knew that Macavoy had
not an evil hair in his head; that vanity was his
greatest weakness, and that through him there
never would have been more half-breed popula-
tion. There was a tradition that he had a wife
somewhere — based upon wild words he had once
said when under the influence of bad liquor;
but he had roared his accuser the lie when the
thing was imputed to him.

At Fort Ste. Anne, Pierre had known an old
woman, by name of Kitty Whelan, whose char-
acter was all tatters. She had told him that
many years agone she had had a broth of a lad
for a husband; but because of a sharp word or
two across the fire, and the toss of a handful of
furniture, he had left her, and she had seen no
more of him. " Tall like a chimney he was,"
said she, "and a chest like a wall, so broad, and
a voice like a huntsman's horn, though only a
b'y, an' no hair an his face; an' she did n't know
whether he was dead or alive; but dead belike,
for he 's sure to come rap agin' somethin' that 'd

A Lovely Bully 19

kill him; for he, the darlin', was that aisy and
gentle, he would n't pull his fightin' iron till he
had death in his ribs."

Pierre had drawn from her that the name of
this man whom she had cajoled into a marriage
(being herself twenty years older), and driven to
deserting her afterward, was Tim Macavoy.
She had married Mr. Whelan on the assumption
that Macavoy was dead. But Mr. Whelan had
not the nerve to desert her, and so he departed
this life, very loudly lamented by Mrs. Whelan,
who had changed her name with no right to do
so. With his going her mind dwelt greatly upon
the virtues of her mighty vanished Tim : and ill
would it be for Tim if she found him.

Pierre had journeyed to Fort O'Angel almost
wholly because he had Tim Macavoy in his
mind; in it Mrs. Whelan had only an incidental
part: his plans journeyed beyond her and her
lost consort. He was determined on an expedi-
tion to capture Fort Comfort, which had been
abandoned by the great Company, and was now
held by a great band of the Shunup Indians.

Pierre had a taste for conquest for its own
sake ; though he had no personal ambition.
The love of adventure was deep in him, he
adored sport for its own sake, he had had a
long range of experiences — some discreditable,

2O An Adventurer of the North

and now he had determined on a field for his
talent.

He would establish a kingdom, and resign it.
In that case he must have a man to take his
place. He chose Macavoy.

First he must humble the giant to the earth,
then make him into a great man again, with a
new kind of courage. The undoing of Macavoy
seemed a civic virtue. He had a long talk with
Wonta, the Indian maiden most admired by
Macavoy. Many a time the Irishman had cast
an ogling, rolling eye on her, and had talked
his loudest within her ear-shot, telling of splen-
did things he had done : making himself like
another Samson as to the destruction of men,
and a Hercules as to the slaying of cattle.

Wonta had a sense of humour also, and when
Pierre told her what was required of her, she
laughed with a quick little gurgle, and showed
as handsome a set of teeth as the half-breed's;
which said much for her. She promised to do
as he wished. So it chanced when Macavoy was
at his favorite seat beneath the pine, talking to a
gaping audience, Wonta and a number of Indian
girls passed by. Pierre was leaning against a
door smoking, not far away. Macavoy's voice
became louder.

" ' Stand them up wan by wan,' says I, ' and

A Lovely Bully 21

give me a leg loose and a fist free ; and at
that—' "

" At that there was thunder and fire in the
sky, and because the great Macavoy blew his
breath over them they withered like the leaves,"
cried Wonta laughing; but her laugh had an
edge.

Macavoy stopped short, open - mouthed,
breathing hard in his great beard. He was as-
tonished at Wonta's raillery: the more so when
she presently snapped her fingers, and the other
maidens, laughing, did the same. Some of the
half-breeds snapped their fingers also in sym-
pathy, and shrugged their shoulders. Wonta
came up to him softly, patted him on the head,
and said: " Like Macavoy there is nobody. He
is a great brave. He is not afraid of a coyote,
he has killed prairie-hens in numbers as pebbles
by the lakes. He has a breast like a fat ox," —
here she touched the skin of his broad chest, —
" and he will die if you do not fight him."

Then she drew back, as though in humble
dread, and glided away with the other maidens,
Macavoy staring after her with a blustering kind
of shame in his face. The half-breeds laughed,
and, one by one, they got up and walked away
also. Macavoy looked round: there was no one
near save Pierre, whose eye rested on him lazily.

22 An Adventurer of the North

Macavoy got to his feet muttering. This was
the first time in his experience at Fort O' Angel
that he had been bluffed — and by a girl ; one
for whom he had a very soft place in his big
heart. Pierre came slowly over to him.

" I 'd have it out with her," said he. " She
called you a bully and a brag."

" Out with her! " cried Macavoy. " How can
ye have it out wid a woman? "

" Fight her," said Pierre pensively.

" Fight her ! fight her ! Holy smoke 1 How
can ye fight a woman? "

" Why, what — do you — fight ? " asked Pierre
innocently.

Macavoy grinned in a wild kind of fashion.
" Faith, then, y' are a fool. Bring on the divil
an' all his angels, say I, and I '11 fight thim where
I shtand."

Pierre ran his fingers down Macavoy's arm,
and said, "There's time enough for that. I 'd
begin with the five."

"What five, then?"

" Her half-breed lovers : Big Eye, One Toe,
Jo-John, Saucy Boy, and Limber Legs."

" Her lovers! Her lovers, is it? Is there truth
on y'r tongue ? "

" Go to her father's tent at sunset, and you '11
find one or all of them there."

A Lovely Bully 23

"Oh, is that it ?" said the Irishman, opening
and shutting his fists. " Then I '11 carve their
hearts out, an' ate thim wan by wan this night."

" Come down to Wiley's," said Pierre, "there 's
better company there than here."

Pierre had arranged many things, and had
secured partners in his little scheme for humbling
the braggart. He so worked on the other's good
nature that by the time they reached the
settler's place, Macavoy was stretching himself
with a big pride. Seated at Wiley's table, with
Hatchett and others near, and drink going
about, someone drew the giant on to talk, and
so deftly and with such apparent innocence did
Pierre, by a word here and a nod there, encour-
age him, that presently he roared at Wiley and
Hatchett —

"Ye shameless buccaneers that push yer
way into the tracks of honest men, where the
Company 's been three hundred years by the
will o' God — if it was n't for me, ye Jack Shep-
pards — "

Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet
with pretended rage, saying he 'd insulted them
both, that he was all froth and brawn, and giv-
ing him the lie.

Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only
stare, purring in his beard, and drawing in his

24 An Adventurer of the North

legs, which had been spread out at angles. He
looked from Wiley to the impassive Pierre.

" Buccaneers, you call us," Wiley went on ;
" we '11 have no more of that, or there '11 be
trouble at Fort O'Angel."

"Ah, sure y 'are only jokin'," said Macavoy,
"for I love ye, ye scoundrels. It 's only me
fun."

"For fun like that you '11 pay, ruffian!" said
Hatchett, bringing down his fist on the table
with a bang.

Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded,
but there was nothing of the coward in his face.
"Oh, well," said he, "I'll be goin', for ye 've
got y'r teeth all raspin'."

As he went the two men laughed after him
mockingly. "Wind like a bag," said Hatchett.
" Bone like a marrowfat pea," added Wiley.

Macavoy was at the door, but at that he
turned. " If ye care to sail agin that wind, an'
gnaw on that bone, I 'd not be sayin' you no."

"Will tonight do — at sunset?" said Wiley.

" Bedad, then, me b'ys, sunset '11 do — an' not
more than two at a toime," he added softly, all
the roar gone from his throat. Then he went
out, followed by Pierre.

Hatchett and Wiley looked at each other and
laughed a little confusedly. " What 's that he

A Lovely Bully 35

said?" muttered Wiley. "Not more than two
at a time, was it?"

" That was it. I do n't know that it 's what
we bargained for, after all." He looked round
on the other settlers present, who had been awed
by the childlike, earnest note in Macavoy's last
words. They shook their heads now a little
sagely ; they were n't so sure that Pierre's little
game was so jovial as it had promised.

Even Pierre had hardly looked for so much
from his giant as yet. In a little while he had
got Macavoy back to his old humour.

"What was I made for but war!" said the
Irishman, "an* by war to kape thim at peace,
wherever I am."

Soon he was sufficiently restored in spirits to
go with Pierre to Bareback's lodge, where, sit-
ting at the tent door, with idlers about, he
smoked with the chief and his braves. Again
Pierre worked upon him adroitly, and again he
became loud in speech and grandly patronizing.

" I 've stood by ye like a father, ye loafers,"
he said, " an' I give you my word, ye howlin'
rogues — "

Here Bareback and a half-dozen braves came
up suddenly from the ground, and the chief said
fiercely : " You speak crooked things. We are
no rogues. We will fight"

26 An Adventurer of the North

Macavoy's face ran red to his hair. He
scratched his head a little foolishly, and gath'
ered himself up. " Sure, 't was only 'me tasin',
darlin's," he said, "but I '11 be comin' again,
when y' are not so narvis." He turned to go
away.

Pierre made a sign to Bareback, and the
Indian touched the giant on the arm. " Will
you fight?" said he.

" Not all o' ye at once," said Macavoy slowly,
running his eye carefully along the half-dozen ;
"not more than three at a toime," he added
with a simple sincerity, his voice again gone like
the dove's. " At what time will it be convayn-
yint for ye ? " he asked.

" At sunset," said the chief, " before the
Fort."

Macavoy nodded and walked away with
Pierre, whose glance of approval at the Indians
did not make them thoroughly happy.

To rouse the giant was not now so easy. He
had already three engagements of violence for
sunset. Pierre directed their steps by a round-
about to the Company's stores, and again there
was a distinct improvement in the giant's spirits.
Here at least he could be himself, he thought,
here no one should say him nay. As if nerved
by the idea, he plunged at once into boisterous

A Lovely Bully 2/

raillery of the Chief Trader. "Oh, ho," he
began, " me freebooter, me captain av the loot-
ers av the North!"

The Trader snarled at him. "What d'ye
mean, by such talk to me, sir ? I 've had
enough — we 've all had enough — of your brag
and bounce; for you're all sweat and swill-pipe,
and I give you this for your chewing, that though
by the Company's rules I can 't go out and fight
you, you may have your pick of my men for it.
I '11 take my pay for your insults in pounded
flesh — Irish pemmican !"

Macavoy's face became mottled with sudden
rage. He roared, as, perhaps, he had never
roared before —

"Are ye all gone mad — mad — mad? I was
jokin' wid ye, whin I called ye this or that. But
by the swill o' me pipe, and the sweat o' me
skin, I '11 drink the blood o' yees, Trader, me
darlin'. An' all I '11 ask is, that ye mate me to-
night whin the rest o' the pack is in front o' the
Fort — but not more than four o' yees at a time
— for little scrawney rats as y' are, too many o'
yees wad be in me way." He wheeled and
strode fiercely out. Pierre smiled gently.

"He's a great bully that, isn't he, Trader?
There '11 be fun in front of the Fort to-night.
For he 's only bragging, of course — eh ?"

28 An Adventurer of the North

The Trader nodded with no great assurance,
and then Pierre said as a parting word : "You '11
be there, of course — only 'four o' yees!' " and
hurried out after Macavoy, humming to him-
self—

" For the King said this, and the Queen said that,
But he walked away with their army, O ! "

So far Pierre's plan had worked even better
than he expected, though Macavoy's moods had
not been altogether after his imaginings. He
drew alongside the giant, who had suddenly
grown quiet again. Macavoy turned and looked
down at Pierre with the candour of a schoolboy,
and his voice was very low —

"It's a long time ago, I'm thinkin','' he
said, "since I lost me f rinds— ages an' ages ago.
For me frinds are me inimies now, an' that makes
a man old. But I '11 not say that it cripples his
arm or humbles his back." He drew his arm up
once or twice and shot it out straight into the
air like a catapult. "It's all right," he added,
very softly, "an', Half-breed, me b'y, if me frinds
have turned inimies, why, I 'm thinkin' me inimy
has turned frind, for that 1 'm sure you were, an'
this I 'm certain y' are. So here 's the grip av
me fist, an' y' 11 have it."

Pierre remembered that disconcerting, iron
grip of friendship for many a day. He laughed

A Lovely Bully 29

to himself to think how he was turning the brag-
gart into a warrior.

"Well," said Pierre, "what about those five
at Wonta's tent?"

"I'll be there whin the sun dips below the
Little Red Hill," he said, as though his thoughts
were far away, and he turned his face towards
Wonta's tent. Presently he laughed out loud.
"It 's many a long day," he said, "since — "

Then he changed his thoughts. "They've
spoke sharp words in me teeth," he continued,
"and they '11 pay for it. Bounce ! sweat ! brag !
wind ! is it ? There 's dancin' beyant this night,
me darlins!"

"Are you sure you '11 not run away when they
come on?" said Pierre, a little ironically.

"Is that the word av a frind ?" replied Maca-
voy, a hand fumbling in his hair.

"Did you never run away when faced?"
Pierre asked pitilessly.

" I never turned tail from a man, though, to
be sure, it 's been more talk than fight up here :
Fort Ste. Anne 's been but a graveyard for fun
these years."

"Eh, well," persisted Pierre, "but did you
never turn tail from a slip of a woman ?"

The thing was said idly. Macavoy gathered
his beard in his mouth, chewing it confusedly.

30 An Adventurer of the North

"You 've a keen tongue for a question," was his
reply. "What for should any man run from a
woman ?"

"When the furniture flies, and the woman
knows more of the world in a day than the man
does in a year; and the man 's a hulking bit of
an Irishman — bien, then things are so and so ! "

Macavoy drew back dazed, his big legs trem-
bling. "Come into the shade of these maples,"
said Pierre, "for the sun has set you quaking a
little," and he put out his hand to take Maca-
voy's arm.

The giant drew away from the hand, but
walked on to the trees. His face seemed to
have grown older by years on the moment.
"What's this y' are sayin' to me?" he said
hoarsely. "What do you know av — av that
•woman ? "

"Malahide is a long way off," said Pierre,
"but when one travels why should n't the
other?"

Macavoy made a helpless motion with his
lumbering hand. "Mother o' saints," he said,
"has it come to that, after all these years? Is
she — tell me where she is, me frind, and you '11
niver want an arm to fight for ye, an' the half av
a blanket, while I have wan !"

"But you '11 run as you did before, if I tell

A Lovely Bully 31

you, an* there '11 be no fighting to-night, accord-
in' to the word you 've given."

"No fightin', did ye say ? an' run away, is it ?
Then this in your eye, that if ye '11 bring an
army, I '11 fight till the skin is in rags on me
bones, whin it 's only men that 's before me ; but
women, and that wan ! Faith, I 'd run, I 'm
thinkin', as I did, you know when — Do n't tell
me that she 's here, man ; arrah, do n't say that ! "

There was something pitiful and childlike in
the big man's voice, so much so that Pierre, cal-
culating gamester as he was, and working upon
him as he had been for many weeks, felt a sud-
den pity, and dropping his fingers on the other's
arm, said: "No, Macavoy, my friend, she is
not here; but she is at Fort Ste. Anne — or was
when I left there."

Macavoy groaned. " Does she know that I 'm
here? " he asked.

" I think not. Fort Ste. Anne is far away,
and she may not hear."

"What — what is she doing?"

" Keeping your memory and Mr. Whelan's
green." Then Pierre told him somewhat bluntly
what he knew of Mrs. Macavoy.

" I 'd rather face Ballzeboob himself than
her," said Macavoy. " An' she 's sure to find
me."

32 An Adventurer of the North

Not if you do as I say."
" An' what is it ye say, little man?"
" Come away with me where she '11 not find
you."

"An* where is that, Pierre darlin'?"
" I '11 tell you that when to-night's fighting 's
over. Have you a mind for Wonta? " he con-
tinued.

" I 've a mind for Wonta an' many another
as fine, but I 'm a married man," he said, " by
priest and by book ; an' I can 't forget that,
though the woman 's to me as the pit below. "

Pierre looked curiously at him. " You 're
a wonderful fool," he said, "but I'm not sure
that I like you less for that. There was Shon
M'Gann — but it is no matter." Here he sighed.
"When to-night is over, you shall have work
and fun that you 've been fattening for this
many a year, and the woman '11 not find you, be
sure of that. Besides — " he whispered in Maca-
voy's ear.

"Poor divil, poor divil, she 'd always a throat
for that; but it 's a horrible death to die, I 'm
thinkin'." Macavoy's chin dropped on his
breast.

When the sun was falling below Little Red
Hill, Macavoy came to Wonta's tent. Pierre
was not far away. What occurred in the tent

A Lovely Bully 33

Pierre never quite knew, but presently he saw
Wonta run out in a frightened way, followed by
the five half-breeds, who carried themselves
awkwardly. Behind them again, with head
shaking from one side to the other, traveled
Macavoy; and they all marched away towards
the Fort.

" Well," said Pierre to Wonta, " he 's amus-
ing, eh? — so big a coward, eh?"

" No, no, " she said, "you are wrong. He is
no coward. He is a great brave. He spoke like
a little child, but he said he would fight them all
when—"

" When their turn came," interposed Pierre,
with a fine " bead " of humour in his voice;
" well, you see he has much to do."

He pointed towards the Fort, where people
were gathering fast. The strange news had
gone abroad, and the settlement, laughing joy-
ously, came to see Macavoy swagger: they did
not think there would be fighting.

Those whom Macavoy had challenged were
not so sure. When the giant reached the open
space in front of the Fort, he looked slowly
round him. A great change had come over him.
His skin seemed drawn together more firmly,
and running himself up finely to his full height,
he looked no longer the lounging braggart.

34 An Adventurer of the North

Pierre measured him with his eye, and chuckled
to himself. Macavoy stripped himself of his
coat and waistcoat, and rolled up his sleeves.
His shirt was flying at the chest.

He beckoned to Pierre.

"Are you standin' me frind in this?" he said.

" Now and after," said Pierre.

His voice was very simple. " I never felt as
I do, since the day the coast-guardsmin dropped
on me in Ireland far away, an' I drew blood, an'
every wan o' them — fine beautiful b'ys they
looked — stretchin' out on the ground wan by
wan. D' ye know the double-an'-twist ?" he
suddenly added, " for it 's a honey trick whin
they gather in an you, an' you can 't be layin'
out wid yer fists. It plays the divil wid the
spines av thim. Will ye have a drop av drink —
cold wather, man — near, an' a sponge betune
whiles? For there 's many in the play — makin'
up for lost time. Come an," he added to the two
settlers, who stood not far away, " for ye began
the trouble, an' we '11 settle accordin' to a, b, c."

Wiley and Hatchett, responding to his call,
stepped forward, though they had now little
relish for the matter. They were pale, but they
stripped their coats and waistcoats, and Wiley
stood bravely in front of Macavoy. The giant
looked down on him, arms folded. " I said two

A Lovely Bully 35

of you," he crooned, as if speaking to a woman.
Hatchett stepped forward also. An instant after
the settlers were lying on the ground at different
angles, bruised and dismayed, and little likely to
carry on the war. Macavoy took a pail of water
from the ground, drank from it lightly, and
waited. None other of his opponents stirred.
"There's three Injins," he said, "three rid
divils, that wants showin' the way to their happy
huntin* grounds. . . . Sure, y' are comin',
ain't you, me darlins?" he added coaxingly, and
he stretched himself, as if to make ready.

Bareback, the chief, now harangued the three
Indians, and they stepped forth warily. They
had determined on strategic wrestling, and not
on the instant activity of fists. But their wili-
ness was useless, for Macavoy's double-and-twist
came near to lessening the Indian population of
Fort O'Angel. It only broke a leg and an arm,
however. The Irishman came out of the tangle
of battle with a wild kind of light in his eye, his
beard all torn, and face battered. A shout of
laughter, admiration, and wonder went up from
the crowd. There was a moment's pause, and
then Macavoy, whose blood ran high, stood
forth again. The Trader came to him.

"Must this go on? "he said; "haven't you
had your fill of it?"

36 An Adventurer of the North

Had he touched Macavoy with a word of hu-
mour the matter might have ended there; but
now the giant spoke loud, so all could hear.

"Had me fill av it, Trader, me angel ? I 'm
only gettin' the taste av it. An' ye '11 plaze
bring on yer men — four it was — for the feed av
Irish pemmican."

The Trader turned and swore at Pierre, who
smiled enigmatically. Soon after, two of the
best fighters of the Company's men stood forth.
Macavoy shook his head. "Four, I said, an'
four I '11 have, or I '11 ate the heads aff these."

Shamed, the Trader sent forth two more. All
on an instant the four made a rush on the giant ;
and there was a stiff minute after, in which it
was not clear that he was happy. Blows rattled
on him, and one or two he got on the head, just
as he spun a man senseless across the grass,
which sent him staggering backward for a mo-
ment, sick and stunned.

Pierre called over to him swiftly: " Remember
Malahide!"

This acted on him like a charm. There never
was seen such a shattered bundle of men as came
out from his hands a few minutes later. As for
himself, he had but a rag or two on him, but
stood unmindful of his state, and the fever of bat-
tle untamable on him. The women drew away.

A Lovely Bully 37

"Now, me babes o' the wood," he shouted,
"that sit at the feet av the finest Injin woman in
the North — though she 's no frind o' mine — and
are n't fit to kiss her moccasin, come an wid you,
till I have me fun wid yer spines."

But a shout went up, and the crowd pointed.
There were the five half-breeds running away
across the plains.

The game was over.

" Here 's some clothes, man ; for heaven's sake
put them on," said the Trader.

Then the giant became conscious of his con-
dition, and like a timid girl he hurried into the
clothing.

The crowd would have carried him on their
shoulders, but he would have none of it.

" I 've only wan frind here," he said, " an'
it 's Pierre, an' to his shanty I go an' no other."

"Come, man ami" said Pierre, "for to-mor-
row we travel far."

"And what for that?" asked Macavoy.

Pierre whispered in his ear: "To make you a
king, my lovely bully."

The Filibuster

Pierre had determined to establish a king-
dom, not for gain, but for conquest's sake. But
because he knew that the thing would pall, he
took with him Macavoy the giant, to make him
king instead. But first he made Macavoy from
a lovely bully, a bulk of good-natured brag, into
a Hercules of fight; for, having made him insult
— and be insulted by — near a score of men at
Fort O'Angel, he also made him fight them by
twos, threes, and fours, all on a summer's even-
ing, and send them away broken. Macavoy
would have hesitated to go with Pierre, were it
not that he feared a woman. Not that he had
wronged her ; she had wronged him : she had
married him. And the fear of one's own wife is
the worst fear in the world.

But though his heart went out to women, and
his tongue was of the race that beguiles, he stood
to his "lines" like a man, and people wondered.
Even Wonta, the daughter of Foot-in-the-Sun,
only bent him, she could not break him to her
will. Pierre turned her shy coaxing into irony
38

The Filibuster 39

— that was on the day when all Fort O'Angel
conspired to prove Macavoy a child and not a
warrior. But when she saw what she had done,
and that the giant was greater than his years of
brag, she repented, and hung a dead coyote at
Pierre's door as a sign of her contempt.

Pierre watched Macavoy, sitting with a sponge
of vinegar to his head, for he had had nasty jolt-
ings in his great fight. A little laugh came sim-
mering up to the half-breed's lips, but dissolved
into silence.

" We '11 start in the morning," he said.

Macavoy looked up. " Whin you plaze; but
a word in your ear; are you sure she 'II not fol-
low us?"

" She does n't know. Fort Ste. Anne is in
the south, and Fort Comfort, where we go, is far
north."

"But if she kem!" the big man persisted.

" You will be a king ; you can do as other
kings have done!" Pierre chuckled.

The other shook his head. " Says Father
Nolan to me, says he, ' 't is till death us do part,
an' no man put asunder'; an' I '11 stand by that,
though I 'd slice out the bist tin years av me
life, if I niver saw her face again."

" But the girl, Wonta — what a queen she 'i
make!"

4O An Adventurer of the North

" Marry her yourself, and be king yourself,
and be damned to you! For she, like the rest,
laughed in me face, whin I told thim of the day
whin I—"

" That 's nothing. She hung a dead coyote
at my door. You do n't know women. There '11
be your breed and hers abroad in the land one
day."

Macavoy stretched to his feet — he was so tall
that he could not stand upright in the room.
He towered over Pierre, who blandly eyed him.
" I 've another word for your ear," he said
darkly. " Kape clear av the likes o' that wid me.
For I 've swallowed a tribe of divils. It 's fightin'
you want. Well, I '11 do it — I 've an itch for the
throats of men, but a fool I '11 be no more wid
wimen, white or red — that hell-cat that spoilt me
life an' killed me child, or — "

A sob clutched him in the throat.

"You had a child, then?" said Pierre gently.

" An angel she was, wid hair like the sun, an'
'd melt the heart av an iron god: none like her
above or below. But the mother, ah, the mother
of her! One day whin she 'd said a sharp word,
wid another from me, an' the child clinging to
her dress, she turned quick and struck it, mean-
in' to anger me. Not so hard the blow was, but
it sent the darlin's head agin" the chimney-stone,

The Filibuster 41

and that was the end av it. For she took to her
bed, an' agin' the crowin' o' the cock wan mid-
night, she gives a little cry an' snatched at me
beard. 'Daddy,' says she, 'daddy, it hurts!' An'
thin she floats away, wid a stitch av pain at her
lips."

Macavoy sat down now, his fingers fumbling
in his beard. Pierre was uncomfortable. He
could hear of battle, murder, and sudden death
unmoved — it seemed to him in the game; but
the tragedy of a child — a mere counter as yet in
the play of life — that was different. He slid a
hand over the table, and caught Macavoy's arm.

" Poor little waif !" he said.

Macavoy gave the hand a grasp that turned
Pierre sick, and asked: " Had ye iver a child av
y'r own, Pierre — iver wan at all?"

" Never," said Pierre dreamily, " and I 've
traveled far. A child — a child — is a wonderful
thing. . . . Poor little waif 1"

They both sat silent for a moment. Pierre
was about to rise, but Macavoy suddenly pinned
him to his seat with this question: " Did y' iver
have a wife thin, Pierre?"

Pierre turned pale. A sharp breath came
through his teeth. He spoke slowly: " Yes,
once."

" And she died?" asked the other, awed.

42 An Adventurer of the North

" We all have our day," he replied enigmati-
cally, " and there are worse things than death.
. . . Eh, well, man ami, let us talk of other
things. To-morrow we go to conquer. I know
where I can get five men I want. I have ammu-
nition and dogs."

A few minutes afterward Pierre was busy in
the settlement. At the Fort he heard strange
news. A new batch of settlers was coming from
the south, and among them was an old Irish-
woman who called herself now Mrs. Whelan, now
Mrs. Macavoy. She talked much of the lad she
was to find, one Tim Macavoy, whose fame gos-
sip had brought to her at last. She had clung
on to the settlers, and they could not shake her
off. "She was comin'," she said, "to her own
darlin' b'y, from whom she 'd been parted many
a year, believin' him dead, or Tom Whelan had
niver touched hand o' hers."

The bearer of the news had but just arrived,
and he told it only to the Trader and Pierre.
At a word from Pierre the man promised to
hold his peace. Then Pierre went to Wonta's
lodge. He found her with her father alone,
her head at her knees. When she heard his
voice she looked up sharply, and added a sharp
word also.

"Wait;" he said, "women are such fools.

The Filibuster 43

You snapped your fingers in his face, and
laughed at him. Well, that is nothing. He has
proved himself great. That is something. He
will be greater still, if the other woman does not
find him. She should die, but then some women
have no sense."

"The other woman !" said Wonta, starting to
her feet; "who is the other woman ?"

Old Foot-in-the-Sun waked and sat up, but
seeing that it was Pierre, dropped again to sleep.
Pierre, he knew, was no peril to any woman.
Besides, Wonta hated the half-breed, as he
thought.

Pierre told the girl the story of Macavoy's
life ; for he knew that she loved the man after her
heathen fashion, and that she could be trusted.

"I do not care for that," she said, when he
had finished; "it is nothing. I would go with
him. I should be his wife ; the other should die.
I would kill her if she would fight me. I know
the way of knives, or a rifle, or a pinch at the
throat — she should die !"

"Yes, but that will not do. Keep your hands
free of her."

Then he told her that they were going away.
She said she would go also. He said no to that,
but told her to wait and he would come back for
her.

44 An Adventurer of the North

Though she tried hard to follow them, they
slipped away from the Fort in the moist gloom
of the morning, the brown grass rustling, the
prairie-hens fluttering, the osiers soughing as
they passed, the Spirit of the North, ever hun-
gry, drawing them on over the long Divides.
They did not see each other's faces till dawn.
They were guided by Pierre's voice ; none knew
his comrades. Besides Pierre and Macavoy,
there were five half-breeds — Noel, Little Babiche,
Corvette, Jose", and Jacques Parfaite. When they
came to recognize each other they shook hands
and marched on. In good time they reached
that wonderful and pleasant country between the
Barren Grounds and the Lake of Silver Shallows.
To the north of it was Fort Comfort, which they
had come to take. Macavoy's rich voice roared
as of old, before his valour was questioned — and
maintained — at Fort O'Angel. Pierre had di-
verted his mind from the woman who, at Fort
O'Angel, was even now calling heaven and earth
to witness that "Tim Macavoy was her Macavoy
and no other, an' she 'd find him — the divil and
darlin', wid an arm like Broin Borhoime, an' a
chist you could build a house on — if she walked
till Doomsday!"

Macavoy stood out grandly, his fat all gone
to muscle, blowing through his beard, puffing

The Filibuster 45

his cheek, and ready with tale or song. But
now that they were facing the business of their
journey his voice got soft and gentle, as it did
before the Fort, when he grappled his foes two
by two and three by three, and wrung them out.
In his eyes there was the thing which counts as
many men in any soldier's sight, when he leads
in battle. As he said himself, he was made for
war, like Malachi o' the Golden Collar.

Pierre guessed that just now many of the
Indians would be away for the summer hunt, and
that the Fort would perhaps be held by only a
few score of braves, who, however, would fight
when they might easier play. He had no use-
less compunctions about bloodshed. A human
life he held to be a trifle in the big sum of time,
and that it was of little moment when a man
went, if it seemed his hour. He lived up to his
creed, for he had ever held his own life as a bird
upon a housetop which a chance stone might
drop.

He was glad afterward that he had decided
to fight, for there was one in Fort Comfort
against whom he had an old grudge — the Indian,
Young Eye, who, many years before, had been
one to help in killing the good Father Halen,
the priest who dropped the water on his fore-
head and set the cross on top of that, when he

46 An Adventurer of the North

was at his mother's breasts. One by one the
murderers had been killed, save this man. He
had wandered north, lived on the Coppermine
River for a long time, and at length had come
down among the warring tribes at the Lake of
Silver Shallows.

Pierre was for direct attack. They crossed
the lake in their canoes, at a point about five
miles from the Fort, and so far as they could tell,
without being seen. Then ammunition went
round, and they marched upon the Fort. Pierre
eyed Macavoy — measured him, as it were, for
what he was worth. The giant seemed happy.
He was humming a tune softly through his beard.

Suddenly Jose paused, dropped to the foot of
a pine, and put his ear to it. Pierre understood.
He had caught at the same thing. " There is a
dance on," said Jose", " I can hear the drum."

Pierre thought a minute. " We will recon-
noitre," he said presently.

" It is near night now," remarked Little Ba-
biche. "I know something of these. When
they have a great snake dance at night, strange
things happen." Then he spoke in a low tone
to Pierre.

They halted in the bush, and Little Babiche
went forward to spy upon the Fort. He came
back just after sunset, reporting that the Indians

The Filibuster 47

were feasting. He had crept near, and had
learned that the braves were expected back from
the hunt that night, and that the feast was for
their welcome.

The Fort stood in an open space, with tall
trees for a background. In front, here and
there, were juniper and tamarack bushes. Pierre
laid his plans immediately, and gave the word to
move on. Their presence had not been discov-
ered, and if they could but surprise the Indians
the Fort might easily be theirs. They made a
devour, and after an hour came upon the Fort
from behind. Pierre, himself, went forward
cautiously, leaving Macavoy in command. When
he came again he said:

" It 's a fine sight; and the way is open. They
are feasting and dancing. If we can enter with-
out being seen, we are safe, except for food; we
must trust for that."

When they arrived at the margin of the woods
a wonderful scene was before them. A volcanic
hill rose up on one side, gloomy and stern, but
the reflection of the fires reached it, and made
its sides quiver — the rock itself seemed trem-
bling. The sombre pines showed up, a wall all
round, and in the open space, turreted with fan-
tastic fires, the Indians swayed in and out with
weird chanting, their bodies mostly naked, and

48 An Adventurer of the North

painted in strange colours. The earth itself was
still and sober. Scarce a star peeped forth. A
purple velvet curtain seemed to hang all down
the sky, though here and there the flame bronzed
it. The Indian lodges were empty, save where
a few children squatted at the openings. The
seven stood still with wonder, till Pierre whis-
pered to them to get to the ground and crawl
close in by the walls of the Fort, following him.
They did so, Macavoy breathing hard — too hard;
for suddenly Pierre clapped a hand on his mouth.
They were now near the Fort, and Pierre had
seen an Indian come from the gate. The brave
was within a few feet of them. He had almost
passed them, for they were in the shadow, but
Jos£ had burst a puff-ball in his hand, and the
dust flying up, made him sneeze. The Indian
turned and saw them. With a low cry and the
spring of a tiger, Pierre was at his throat ; and
in another minute they were struggling on the
ground. Pierre's hand never let go. His com-
rades did not stir; he had warned them to lie
still. They saw the terrible game played out
within arm's length of them. They heard Pierre
say at last, as the struggles of the Indian ceased:
"Beast! You had Father Halen's life. I have
yours."

The Filibuster 49

There was one more wrench of the Indian's
limbs, and then he lay still.

They crawled nearer the gate, still hidden
in the shadows and the grass. Presently they
came to a clear space. Across this they must
go, and enter the Fort before they were dis-
covered. They got to their feet, and ran with
wonderful swiftness, Pierre leading, to the gate.
They had just reached it when there was a cry
from the walls, on which two Indians were
sitting. The Indians sprang down, seized their
spears, and lunged at the seven as they entered.
One spear caught Little Babiche in the arm as
he swung aside, but with the butt of his musket
Noel dropped him. The other Indian was
promptly handled by Pierre himself. By this
time Corvette and Jose" had shut the gates, and
the Fort was theirs — an easy conquest. The
Indians were bound and gagged.

The adventurers had done it all without draw-
ing the attention of the howling crowd without.
The matter was in its infancy, however. They
had the place, but could they hold it ? What
food and water were there within ? Perhaps
they were hardly so safe besieged as besiegers.
Yet there was no doubt on Pierre's part. He had
enjoyed the adventure so far up to the hilt —

50 An Adventurer of the North

an old promise had been kept, and an old
wrong avenged.

"What's to be done now?" said Macavoy.
" There '11 be hell's own racket; and they '11 come
an like a flood."

" To wait," said Pierre, " and dam the flood
as it comes. But not a bullet till I give the word.
Take to the chinks. We '11 have them soon."

He was right : they came soon. Someone
had found the dead body of Young Eye; then it
was discovered that the gate was shut. A big
shout went up. The Indians ran to their lodges
for spears and hatchets, though the weapons of
many were within the Fort, and soon they were
about the place, shouting in impotent rage.
They could not tell how many invaders were in
the Fort; they suspected it was the Little Skins,
their ancient enemies. But Young Eye, they
saw, had not been scalped. This was brought
to the old chief, and he called to his men to fall
back. They had not seen one man of the invad-
ers; all was silent and dark within the Fort; even
the two torches which had been burning above
the gate were down. At that moment, as if to
add to the strangeness, a caribou came suddenly
through the fires, and, passing not far from the
bewildered Indians, plunged into the trees be-
hind the Fort.

The Filibuster 51

The caribou is credited with great powers. It
is thought to understand all that is said to it, and
to be able to take the form of a spirit. No
Indian will come near it till it is dead, and he
who kills it out of season is supposed to bring
down all manner of evil.

So at this sight they cried out — the women
falling to the ground with their faces in their
arms — that the caribou had done this thing. For
a moment they were all afraid. Besides, as a
brave showed, there was no mark on the body of
Young Eye.

Pierre knew quite well that this was a bull
caribou, traveling wildly till he found another
herd. He would carry on the deception. "Wail
for the dead, as your women do in Ireland.
That will finish them," he said to Macavoy.

The giant threw his voice up and out, so that
it seemed to come from over the Fort to the
Indians, weird and crying. Even the half-breeds
standing by felt a light shock of unnatural ex-
citement. The Indians without drew back slowly
from the Fort, leaving a clear space between.
Macavoy had uncanny tricks with his voice, and
presently he changed the song into a shrill, wail-
ing whistle, which went trembling about the
place and then stopped suddenly.

" Sure, that 's a poor game, Pierre," he whis-

52 An Adventurer of the North

pered ;" an' I 'd rather be pluggin' their hides
wid bullets, or givin' the double-an'-twist. It 's
fightin' I come for, and not the trick av Mother
Kilkevin!"

Pierre arranged a plan of campaign at once.
Every man looked to his gun, the gates were
slowly opened, and Macavoy stepped out. Pierre
had thrown over the Irishman's shoulders the
great skin of a musk-ox which he had found
inside the stockade. He was a strange, immense
figure, as he walked into the open space, and,
folding his arms, looked round. In the shadow
of the gate behind were Pierre and the half-
breeds, with guns cocked.

Macavoy had lived so long in the north that
he knew enough of all the languages to speak to
this tribe. When he came out a murmur of
wonder ran among the Indians. They had never
seen anyone so tall, for they were not great of
stature, and his huge beard and wild shock of
hair were a wonderful sight. He remained silent,
looking on them. At last the old chief spoke.
"Who are you?"

" I am a great chief from the Hills of the
Mighty Men, come to be your king," was his
reply.

" He is your king," cried Pierre in a strange

The Filibuster 53

voice from the shadow of the gate, and he
thrust out his gun-barrel, so that they could
see it.

The Indians now saw Pierre and the half-
breeds in the gateway, and they had not so much
awe. They came a little nearer, and the women
stopped crying. A few of the braves half raised
their spears. Seeing this, Pierre instantly stepped
forward to the giant. He looked a child in stat-
ure thereby. He spoke quickly and well in the
Chinook language.

"This is a mighty man from the Hills of the
Mighty Men. He has come to rule over you, to
give all other tribes into your hands ; for he has
strength like a thousand, and fears nothing of
gods nor men. I have the blood of red men in
me. It is I who have called this man from his
distant home. I heard of your fighting and
foolishness; also that warriors were to come
from the south country to scatter your wives and
children, and to make you slaves. I pitied you,
and I have brought you a chief greater than any
other. Throw your spears upon the ground, and
all will be well ; but raise one to throw, or one
arrow, or axe, and there shall be death among
you, so that as a people you shall die. The
spirits are with us. ... Well?"

54 An Adventurer of the North

The Indians drew a little nearer, but they did
not drop their spears, for the old chief forbade
them.

"We are not dogs or cowards," he said,
"though the spirits be with you, as we believe.
We have seen strange tilings" — he pointed to
Young Eye — "and heard voices not of men;
but we would see great things as well as strange.
There are seven men of the Little Skins' tribe
within a lodge yonder. They were to die when
our braves returned from the hunt, and for that
we prepared the feast. But this mighty man, he
shall fight them all at once, and if he kills them
he shall be our king. In the name of my tribe
I speak. And this other," pointing to Pierre,
"he shall also fight with a strong man of our
tribe, so that we shall know if you are all brave,
and not as those who crawl at the knees of the
mighty."

This was more than Pierre had bargained for.
Seven men at Macavoy, and Indians, too, fight-
ing for their lives, was a contract of weight. But
Macavoy was blowing in his beard cheerfully
enough.

"Let me choose me ground," he said, "wid
me back to the wall, an' I '11 take thim as they
come."

Pierre instantly interpreted this to the Indians,

The Filibuster 55

and said for himself that he would welcome their
strongest man at the point of a knife when he
chose.

The chief gave an order, and the Little Skins
were brought. The fires still burned brightly,
and the breathing of the pines, as a slight wind
rose and stirred them, came softly over. The
Indians stood off at the command of the chief.
Macavoy drew back to the wall, dropped the
musk-ox skin to the ground, and stripped him-
self to the waist. But in his waistband there was
what none of these Indians had ever seen — a
small revolver that barked ever so softly. In the
hands of each Little Skin there was put a knife,
and they were told their cheerful exercise. They
came on cautiously, and then suddenly closed
in, knives flashing. But Macavoy's little bulldog
barked, and one dropped to the ground. The
others fell back. The wounded man drew up,
made a lunge at Macavoy, but missed him. As
if ashamed, the other six came on again at a
spring. But again the weapon did its work
smartly, and one more came down. Now the
giant put it away, ran in upon the five, and cut
right and left. So sudden and massive was his
rush that they had no chance. Three fell at his
blows, and then he drew back swiftly to the wall.
" Drop your knives," he said, as they cowered,

56 An Adventurer of the North

"or I '11 kill you all." They did so. He dropped
his own.

"Now come an, ye scuts !" he cried, and sud-
denly he reached and caught them, one with each
arm, and wrestled with them, till he bent the one
like a willow rod, and dropped him with a broken
back, while the other was at his mercy. Suddenly
loosing him, he turned him toward the woods,
and said: "Run, ye rid divil, run for y'r life!"

A dozen spears were raised, but the rifles of
Pierre's men came in between; the Indian
reached cover and was gone. Of the six others,
two had been killed, the rest were severely
wounded, and Macavoy had not a scratch.

Pierre smiled grimly. "You 've been doing
all the fighting, Macavoy," he said.

"There 's no bein' a king for nothin'," he re-
plied, wiping blood from his beard.

"It 's my turn now, but keep your rifles ready,
though I think there 's no need."

Pierre had but a short minute with the cham-
pion, for he was an expert with the knife. He
carried away four fingers of the Indian's fighting
hand, and that ended it ; for the next instant the
point was at the red man's throat. The Indian
stood to take it like a man ; but Pierre loved
that kind of courage, and shot the knife into its
sheath instead.

The Filibuster 57

The old chief kept his word, and after the
spears were piled, he shook hands with Macavoy,
as did his braves one by one, and they were all
moved by the sincerity of his grasp : their arms
were useless for some time after. They hailed
as their ruler, King Macavoy I.; for men are like
dogs — they worship him who beats them. The
feasting and dancing went on till the hunters
came back. Then there was a wild scene, but in
the end all the hunters, satisfied, came to greet
their new king.

The king himself went to bed in the Fort that
night, Pierre and his bodyguard — by name Noel,
Little Babiche, Corvette, Jose", and Parfaite — its
only occupants, singing joyfully —

" Did yees iver hear tell o' Long Barney,
That come from the groves o' Killarney ?
He wint for a king, oh, he wint for a king,
But he niver kem back to Killarney
Wid his crown, an' his soord, an' his army !"

As a king Macavoy was a success, for the
brag had gone from him. Like all his race he
had faults as a subject, but the responsibility of
ruling set him right. He found in the Fort an
old sword and belt, left by some Company's
man, and these he furbished up and wore.

With Pierre's aid he drew up a simple con-
stitution, which he carried in the crown of his

58 An Adventurer of the North

cap, and he distributed beads and gaudy trap-
pings as marks of honour. Nor did he forget
the frequent pipe of peace, made possible to all
by generous gifts of tobacco. Anyone can found
a kingdom abaft the Barren Grounds with to-
bacco, beads, and red flannel.

For very many weeks it was a happy king-
dom. But presently Pierre yawned, and was
ready to return. Three of the half-breeds were
inclined to go with him. Jose" and Little Ba-
biche had formed alliances which held them
there — besides, King Macavoy needed them.

On the eve of Pierre's departure a notable
thing occurred.

A young brave had broken his leg in hunt-
ing, had been picked up by a band of another
tribe and carried south. He found himself at
last at Fort O' Angel. There he had met Mrs.
Whelan, and for presents of tobacco, and purple
and fine linen, he had led her to her consort.
That was how the king and Pierre met her in the
yard of Fort Comfort one evening of early
autumn. Pierre saw her first, and was for turn-
ing the King about and getting him away ; but
it was too late. Mrs. Whelan had seen him, and
she called out at him:

"Oh, Tim ! me jool ! me king ! have I found
ye, me imp'ror ! "

The Filibuster 59

She ran at him, to throw her arms round
him. He stepped back, the red of his face
going white, and said, stretching out his hand,
" Woman, y' are me wife, I know, whativer y' be;
an' y' ve right to have shelter and bread av me;
but me arms, an' me bed, are me own to kape or
to give; and by God, ye shall have nayther one
nor the other! There 's a ditch as wide as hell
betune us!"

The Indians had gathered quickly; they filled
the yard, and crowded the gate. The woman
went wild, for she had been drinking. She ran
at Macavoy and spat in his face, and called down
such a curse on him as whoever hears, be he the
one that 's cursed or any other, shudders at till
he dies. Then she fell in a fit at his feet. Mac-
avoy turned to the Indians, stretched out his
hands and tried to speak, but could not. He
stooped down, picked up the woman, carried
her into the Fort, and laid her on a bed of skins.

"What will you do?" asked Pierre.

" She is my wife," he answered firmly.

"She lived with Whelan."

" She must be cared for," was the reply.
Pierre looked at him with a curious quietness.
" I '11 get liquor for her," he said presently. He
started to go, but turned and felt the woman's
pulse. " You would keep her?" he asked.

60 An Adventurer of the North

" Bring the liquor."

Macavoy reached for water, and dipping the
sleeve of his shirt in it, wetted her face gently.

Pierre brought the liquor, but he knew that
the woman would die. He stayed with Macavoy
beside her all night. Toward morning her eyes
opened and she shivered greatly.

" It 's bither cold," she said. " You '11 put
more wood on the fire, Tim, for the babe must
be kipt warrum."

She thought she was at Malahide.

"Oh, wurra, wurra! but 'tis freezin'!" she
said again. " Why d' ye kape the door opin
whin the child 's perishin'?"

Macavoy sat looking at her, his trouble shak-
ing him.

"I '11 shut the door meself, thin," she added;
"for 't was I that lift it opin, Tim." She started
up, but gave a cry like a wailing wind, and fell
back.

" The door is shut," said Pierre.

" But the child ! the child ! " said Macavoy,
tears running down his face and beard.

The Gift of the Simple King

I

Once Macavoy, the giant, ruled a tribe of
Northern people, achieving the dignity by the
hands of Pierre, who called him King Macavoy.
Then came a time when, tiring of his kingship,
he journeyed south, leaving all behind, even his
queen, Wonta, who, in her bed of cypresses and
yarrow, came forth no more into the morning.
About Fort Guidon they still gave him his title,
and because of his guilelessness, sincerity, and
generosity, Pierre called him "The Simple
King." His seven feet and over shambled
about, suggesting unjointed power, unshackled
force. No one hated Macavoy, many loved him,
he was welcome at the fire and the cooking-pot:
yet it seemed shameful to have so much man
useless — such an engine of life, which might do
great things, wasting fuel. Nobody thought
much of that at Fort Guidon, except, perhaps,
Pierre, who sometimes said, " My simple king,
some day you shall have your great chance
again, but not as a king — as a giant, a man."
61

62 An Adventurer of the North

The day did not come immediately, but it
came.

When Ida, the deaf and dumb girl, married
Hilton, of the H.B.C., every man at Fort Guidon,
and some from posts beyond, sent her or brought
her presents of one kind or another. Pierre's
gift was a Mexican saddle. He was branding
Ida's name on it with the broken blade of a case-
knife, when Macavoy entered on him, having just
returned from a vagabond visit to Fort Ste. Anne.

" Is it digging out or carvin' in y' are?" he
asked, puffing into his beard.

Pierre looked up contemptuously, but did not
reply to the insinuation, for he never saw an in-
sult unless he intended to avenge it ; and he
would not quarrel with Macavoy.

" What are you going to give?" he asked.

" Aw, give what to who, Hop-o'-me-thumb?"
Macavoy said, stretching himself out in the door-
way, his legs in the sun, his head in the shade.

" You 've been taking a walk in the country,
then ? " Pierre asked, though he knew.

" To Fort Ste. Anne : a buryin', two christ'-
nin's, and a weddin' ; an' lashin's av grog an'
swill — aw that, me button o' the North! "

" Hey ! What a fool you are, my simple
king ! You 've got the things end foremost.
Turn your head to the open air, for I go to light

The Gift of the Simple King 63

a cigarette, and if you breathe this way, there
will be a grand explode ! "

" Aw, yer thumb in yer eye, Pierre ! It's like
a baby's, me breath is, milk and honey it is — aw
yis; an' Father Corraine, that was doin' the trick
for the love o' God, says he to me, 'Little Tim
Macavoy,' — aw yis, little Tim Macavoy, — says he,
* when are you goin' to buckle to, for the love av
God ! ' says he. Ashamed I was, Pierre, that
Father Corraine should spake to me like that, for
I 'd only a twig twisted at me hips to kape me
trousies up, an' I thought 'twas that he had in
his eye ! ' Buckle to,' says I, ' Father Corraine?
Buckle to, yer riv'rince ! ' — feelin' I was at the
twigs the while. ' Ay, little Tim Macavoy,' he
says, says he, 'you 've bin atin' the husks av
idleness long enough ; when are you goin' to
buckle to ? You had a kingdom and ye guv it
up,' says he ; ' take a field, get a plough, and
buckle to,' says he, 'an' turn back no more!' —
like that, says Father Corraine ; and I thinkin'
all the time 'twas the want o' me belt he was
drivin' at ! "

Pierre looked at him a moment idly, then
said: "Such a tom-fool ! And where's that
grand leather belt of yours, eh, my monarch ? "

A laugh shook through Macavoy's beard.
" For the weddin' it wint : buckled the two up

64 l^n Adventurer of the North

wid it for better or worse — an' purty they looked,
they did, standin' there in me cinch, an' one hole
lift — aw yis, Pierre ! "

" And what do you give to Ida ? " Pierre
asked, with a little emphasis of the branding-iron.

Macavoy got to his feet. " Ida ! Ida ! " said
he. " Is that saddle for Ida ? Is it her and
Hilton that's to ate aff one dish togither ? That
rose o' the valley, that bird wid a song in her
face and none an her tongue ! That daisy dot
av a thing, steppin' through the world like a
sprig o' glory ! Aw, Pierre, thim two ! — an I 've
divil a scrap to give, good or bad. I 've nothin'
at all in the wide wurruld but the clothes on me
back, an' thim hangin' on the underbrush ! "
— giving a little twist to the twigs. " An' many
a meal an' many a dipper o' drink she' s guv me,
little smiles dancin' at her lips."

He sat down in the doorway again, with his
face turned toward Pierre, and the back of his
head in the sun. He was a picture of perfect
health, sumptuous, huge, a bull in beauty, the
heart of a child looking out of his eyes, but a
sort of despair, too, in his bearing.

Pierre watched him with a furtive humour for
a time, then he said languidly : " Never mind
your clothes, give yourself. "

"Yer tongue inyer cheek, me spot o' vinegar.

The Gift of the Simple King 65

Give meself ! What's that for ? A purty wed-
din' gift, says I ! Handy thing to have in the
house ! Use me for a clothes-horse, or shtand
me in the garden for a fairy bower ! — aw yis, wid
a hole in me face that 'd ate thim out o' house
and home ! "

Pierre drew a piece of brown paper toward
him, and wrote on it with a burnt match. Pres-
ently he held it up. " Voila, my simple king, the
thing for you to do : a grand gift, and to cost
you nothing now. Come, read it out, and tell
me what you think."

Macavoy took the paper, and in a large, judi-
cial way, read slowly:

" On demand, for value received, I promise to
pay to . . IDA HILTON, . . or order,
meself, Tim Macavoy, standin* seven foot three on
me bare fut, wid interest at nothin' at all."

Macavoy ended with a loud smack of the lips.
"McGuire!" he said, and nothing more.

McGuire was his strongest expression. In
the most important moments of his career he had
said it, and it sounded deep, strange and more
powerful than many usual oaths. A moment
later he said again, " McGuire ! " Then he
read the paper once more out loud. "What's
that, me Frenchman ? " he said. " What Ballze-
boob's tricks are y' at now ? "

66 An Adventurer of the North

Pierre was complacently eyeing his handi-
work on the saddle. He now settled back with
his shoulders to the wall, and said: "See, then,
it 's a little promissory note for a wedding-gift to
Ida. When she says some day, ' Tim Macavoy,
I want you to do this or that, or to go here or
there, or to sell you or trade you, or use you for
a clothes-horse, or a bridge over a canyon, or to
hold up a house, or blow out a prairie-fire, or be
my second husband,' you shall say, ' Here I am';
and you shall travel from Heaven to Halifax, but
you shall come at the call of this promissory ! "

Pierre's teeth glistened behind a smile as he
spoke, and Macavoy broke into a roar of laugh-
ter. "Black 's the white o' yer eye," he said at
last, "an1 a joke's a joke. Seven fut three I
am, an' sound av wind an' limb — an' a weddin'-
gift to that swate rose o' the valley! Aisy, aisy,
Pierre. A bit o' foolin' 't was ye put on the
paper, but truth I '11 make it, me cock o' the
walk ! That 's me gift to her an' Hilton, an' no
other. An' a dab wid red wax it shall have, an'
what more be the word o' Freddy Tarlton the
lawyer."

"You're a great man," said Pierre, with a
touch of gentle irony, for his natural malice had
no play against the huge ex-king of his own
making. With these big creatures — he had con-

The Gift of the Simple King 67

nived with several in his time — he had ever been
superior, protective, making them to feel that
they were as children beside him. He looked at
Macavoy musingly, and said to himself, "Well,
why not ? If it is a joke, then it is a joke ; if it
is a thing to make the world stand still for a
minute some time, so much the better. He is all
waste now. By the holy, he shall do it. It is
amusing, and it may be great bye and bye."

Presently Pierre said aloud : "Well, my Mac-
avoy, what will you do ? Send this good gift ?"

"Awyis, Pierre; I shtand by that from the
crown av me head to the sole av me fut sure.
Face like a mornin' in May, and hands like the
tunes of an organ, she has. Spakes wid a look
av her eye and a twist av her purty lips an' sway-
ing body, an' talkin' to you widout a word. Aw
motion — motion — motion ; yis, that 's it. An'
I 've seen her an tap af a hill wid the wind blow-
in' her hair free, and the yellow buds on the
tree, and the grass green beneath her feet, the
world smilin' betune her and the sun : pictures
— pictures, aw yis ! Promissory notice on de-
mand is at anny toime ? Seven fut three on me
bare toes — but. Father o' Sin 1 when she calls I
come, yis."

"On your oath, Macavoy?" asked Pierre;
"by the book of the Mass ?"

68 An Adventurer of the North

Macavoy stood up straight till his head
scraped the cobwebs between the rafters, the wild
indignation of a child in his eye. "D' ye think
I 'm a thafe, to stale me own word ? Hut ! I '11
break ye in two, ye wisp o' straw, if ye doubt me
word to a lady. There 's me note av hand, and
ye shall have me fist on it, in writin' at Freddy
Tarlton's office, wid a blotch av red and the
queen's head at the bottom. McGuire /" he said
again, and paused, puffing his lips through his
beard.

Pierre looked at him a moment, then waving
his fingers idly, said, "So, my straw-breaker!
Then to-morrow morning at ten you will fetch
your wedding-gift. But come so soon now to
M'sieu' Tarlton's office, and we will have it all
as you say, with the red seal and the turn of your
fist — yes. Well, well, we travel far in the world,
and sometimes we see strange things, and no
two strange things are alike — no ; there is only
one Macavoy in the world, there was only one
Shon M'Gann. Shon M'Gann was a fine fool,
but he did something at last, truly yes: Tim
Macavoy, perhaps, will do something at last on
his own hook. Hey, I wonder!"

He felt the muscles of Macavoy's arm mus-
ingly, and then laughed up in the giant's face.
"Once I made you a king, my own, and you

The Gift of the Simple King 69

threw it all away; now I make you a slave, and
we shall see what you will do. Come along, for
M'sieu' Tarlton."

Macavoy dropped a heavy hand on Pierre's
shoulder.

"'T is hard to be a king, Pierre, but 't is aisy
to be a slave for the likes o' her. I 'd kiss her
dirty shoe sure !"

As they passed through the door, Pierre said,
"Dis done, perhaps, when all is done, she will
sell you for old bones and rags. Then I will
buy you, and I will burn your bones and the
rags, and I will scatter to the four winds of the
earth the ashes of a king, a slave, a fool, and an
Irishman, — truly! "

"Bedad, ye '11 have more earth in yer hands
then, Pierre, than ye '11 ever earn, and more
heaven than ye '11 ever shtand in."

Half an hour later they were in Freddy Tarl-
ton's office on the banks of the Little Big Swan,
which tumbled past, swelled by the first rain of
the early autumn. Freddy Tarlton, who had a
gift of humour, entered into the spirit of the
thing and treated it seriously; but in vain did
he protest that the large red seal with Her
Majesty's head on it was unnecessary; Macavoy
insisted, and wrote his name across it with a
large indistinctness worthy of a king. Before

70 An Adventurer of the North

the night was over everybody at Guidon Hill,
save Hilton and Ida herself, knew what gift
would come from Macavoy to the wedded pair.

II

The next morning was almost painfully beau-
tiful, so delicate in its clearness, so exalted by
the glory of the hills, so grand in the limitless
stretch of the green-brown prairie north and
south. It was a day for God's creatures to meet
in, and speed away, and having flown round the
boundaries of that spacious domain, to return
again to the nest of home on the large plateau
between the sea and the stars. Gathered about
Ida's home was everybody who lived within a
radius of a hundred miles. In the large front
room all the presents were set : — rich furs from
the far north, cunningly carved bowls, rocking-
chairs made by hand, knives, cooking utensils, a
copy of Shakespeare in six volumes from the
Protestant missionary who performed the cere-
mony, a nugget of gold from the Long Light
River, and outside the door, a horse, Hilton's
own present to his wife, on which was put
Pierre's saddle, with its silver mounting and
Ida's name branded deep on pommel and strap.
When Macavoy arrived, a cheer went up, which

The Gift of the Simple King 71

was carried on waves of laughter into the house
to Hilton and Ida, who even then were listening
to the first words of the brief service which be-
gins, " / charge you both if you do know any just
cause or impediment — " and so on.

They did not turn to see what it was, for just
at that moment they themselves were the very
centre of the universe. Ida being deaf and
dumb, it was necessary to interpret to her the
words of the service by signs, as the missionary
read it, and this was done by Pierre himself, the
half-breed Catholic, the man who had brought
Hilton and Ida together, for he and Ida had
been old friends. After Father Corraine had
taught her the language of signs, Pierre had
learned them from her, until at last his gestures
had become as vital as her own. The delicate
precision of his every movement, the suggestive-
ness of look and motion were suited to a lan-
guage which was nearer to the instincts of his
own nature than word of mouth. All men did
not trust Pierre, but all women did ; with those
he had a touch of Machiavelli, with these he
had no sign of Mephistopheles, and few were
the occasions in his life when he showed out-
ward tenderness to either: which was equally
effective. He had learnt, or knew by instinct,
that exclusiveness as to men, and indifference as

72 An Adventurer of the North

to women, are the greatest influences on both.
As he stood there, slowly interpreting to Ida, by
graceful allusive signs, the words of the service,
one could not think that behind his impassive
face there was any feeling for the man or for the
woman. He had that disdainful smile which
men acquire, who are all their lives aloof from
the hopes of the hearthstone, and acknowledge
no laws but their own.

More than once the eyes of the girl filled
with tears, as the pregnancy of some phrase in
the service came home to her. Her face re-
sponded to Pierre's gestures, as do one's nerves
to the delights of good music, and there was
something so unique, so impressive in the cere-
mony, that the laughter which had greeted
Macavoy passed away, and a dead silence, begin-
ning from where the two stood, crept out until
it covered all the prairie. Nothing was heard ex-
cept Hilton's voice in strong tones saying, " /
take thee to be my wedded wife" etc., but when
the last words of the service were said, and
the new-made bride turned to her husband's
embrace, and a little sound of joy broke from
her lips, there was plenty of noise and laughter
again, for Macavoy stood in the doorway, or
rather outside it, stooping to look in upon the
scene. Someone had lent him the cinch of a

The Gift of the Simple King 73

broncho, and he had belted himself with it, no
longer carrying his clothes about " an the under-
brush." Hilton laughed and stretched out his
hand. " Come in, King," he said, "come and
wish us joy."

Macavoy parted the crowd easily, forcing his
way, and instantly was stooping before the pair
— for he could not stand upright in the room.

" Aw, now, Hilton, is it you, is it you, that's
pluckin' the roses av the valley, snatchin' the
stars out av the sky! aw, Hilton, the like o' that 1
Travel down I did yistiday from "Fort Ste.
Anne, and divil a word I knew till Pierre hit me
in the eye wid it last night — and no time for a
present, for a wedding gift — no, aw no I "

Just here Ida reached up and touched him on
the shoulder. He smiled down on her, puffing
and blowing in his beard, bursting to speak to
her, yet knowing no word by signs to say ; but
he nodded his head at her, and he patted Hil-
ton's shoulder, and he took their hands and
joined them together, her's on top of Hilton's,
and shook them in one of his own till she almost
winced. Presently, with a look at Hilton, who
nodded in reply, Ida lifted her cheek to Macavoy
to kiss — Macavoy, the idle, ill-cared-for, boister-
ous giant. His face became red like that of a
child caught in an awkward act, and with an ab-

74

surd shyness he stooped and touched her cheek.
Then he turned to Hilton, and blurted out,
" Aw, the rose o' the valley, the pride o' the wide
wurruld ! aw the bloom o' the hills ! I 'd have
kissed her dirty shoe. McGuire ! "

A burst of laughter rolled out on the clear
air of the prairie, and the hills seemed to stir
with the pleasure of life. Then it was that Mac-
avoy, following Hilton and Ida outside, suddenly
stopped beside the horse, drew from his pocket
the promissory note that Pierre had written, and
said, " Yis, but all the weddin -gifts are n't in.
'Tis nothin' I had to give — divil a cint in the
wurruld, divil a pound av baccy, or a pot for the
fire, or a bit av linin for the table ; nothin' but
meself an me dirty clothes, standin' seven feet
three an me bare toes. What was I to do ?
There was only meself to give, so I give it free
and hearty, and here it is wid the Queen's head
an it, done in Mr. Tarlton's office. Ye'd better
have had a dog, or a gun, or a ladder, or a horse,
or a saddle, or a quart of brown brandy ; but
such as it is I give it ye — I give it to the rose o'
the valley and the star o' the wide wurruld."

In a loud voice he read the promissory note,
and handed it to Ida. Men laughed till there
were tears in their eyes, and a keg of whisky was
opened ; but somehow Ida did not laugh. She

The Gift of the Simple King 75

and Pierre had seen a serious side to Macavoy's
gift : the childlike manliness in it. It went
home to her woman's heart without a touch of
ludicrousness, without a sound of laughter.

Ill

After a time the interest in this wedding-gift
declined at Fort Guidon, and but three people
remembered it with any singular distinctness
—Ida, Pierre and Macavoy. Pierre was inter-
ested, for in his primitive mind he knew that,
however wild a promise, life is so wild in its
events, there comes the hour for redemption of
all I.O.U.'s.

Meanwhile, weeks, months, and even a couple
of years passed, Macavoy and Pierre coming and
going, sometimes together, sometimes not, in all
manner of words at war, in all manner of fact at
peace. And Ida, out of the bounty of her na-
ture, gave the two vagabonds a place at her fire-
side whenever they chose to come. Perhaps,
where speech was not given, a gift of divination
entered into her instead, and she valued what
others found useless, and held aloof from what
others found good. She had powers which had
ever been the admiration of Guidon Hill. Birds
and animals were her friends — she called them

76 An Adventurer of the North

her kinsmen. A peculiar sympathy joined them ;
so that when, at last, she tamed a white wild
duck, and made it do the duties of a carrier-
pigeon, no one thought it strange.

Up in the hills, beside the White Sun River,
lived her sister and her sister's children ; and, by
and by, the duck carried messages back and
forth, so that when, in the winter, Ida's health
became delicate, she had comfort in the solicitude
and cheerfulness of her sister, and the gaiety of
the young birds of her nest, who sent Ida many
a sprightly message and tales of their good va-
grancy in the hills. In these days Pierre and
Macavoy were little at the Post, save now and
then to sit with Hilton beside the fire, waiting
for spring and telling tales. Upon Hilton had
settled that peaceful, abstracted expectancy which
shows man at his best, as he waits for the time
when, through the half-lights of his fatherhood,
he shall see the broad fine dawn of motherhood
spreading up the world — which, all being said
and done, is that place called Home. Some-
thing gentle came over him while he grew
stouter in body and in all other ways made a
larger figure among the people of the West.

As Pierre said, whose wisdom was more to be
trusted than his general morality, "it is strange
that most men think not enough of themselves

The Gift of the Simple King 77

till a woman shows them how. But it is the
great wonder that the woman does not despise
him for it. Quel caractere / She has so often
to show him his way like a babe, and yet she says
to him, Mon grand homme I my master ! my
lord ! Pshaw ! I have often thought that women
are half saints, half fools, and men half fools,
half rogues. But, quelle vie .' — what life ! with-
out a woman you are half a man ; with one you
are bound to a single spot in the world, you are
tied by the leg, your wing is clipped — you can-
not have all. Quelle vie ! — what life ! "

To this Macavoy said : " Spit-spat ! But what
the devil good does all yer thinkin' do ye,
Pierre ? It 's argufy here and argufy there, an*
while yer at that, me an' the rest av us is squeez-
in' the fun out o' life. Aw, go 'long wid ye.
Y' are only a bit o' hell an' grammar, annyway.
Wid all yer cuttin' and carvin' things to see the
internals av thim, I 'd do more to the call av a
woman's finger than for all the logic and know-
alogy y' ever chewed — an' there y' are, me little
tailor o' jur'sprudince!"

"To the finger call of Hilton's wife, eh ?"

Macavoy was not quite sure what Pierre's

enigmatical tone meant. A wild light shone in

his eyes, and his tongue blundered out: "Yis,

Hilton's wife's finger, or a look av her eye, or

78 An Adventurer of the North

nothin' at all. Aisy, aisy, ye wasp ! ye 'd go
stalkin' divils in hell for her yerself, so ye
would. But the tongue av ye — hut, it 's gall to
the tip ! "

"Maybe, my king. But I 'd go hunting be-
cause I wanted ; you because you must. You 're
a slave to come and to go, with a Queen's seal
on the promissory."

Macavoy leaned back and roared. "Aw, that !
The rose o' the valley ! the joy o' the wurrld !
S't, Pierre — " his voice grew softer on a sudden,
as a fresh thought came to him — "did y* ever
think that the child might be dumb like the
mother?"

This was a day in the early spring, when the
snows were melting in the hills, and freshets
were sweeping down the valleys far and near.
That night a warm heavy rain came on, and in
the morning every stream and river was swollen
to twice its size. The mountains seemed to have
stripped themselves of snow, and the vivid sun
began at once to color the foothills with green.
As Pierre and Macavoy stood at their door, look-
ing out upon the earth cleansing itself, Macavoy
suddenly said: "Aw, look, look, Pierre — her
white duck aff to the nest on Champak Hill !"

They both shaded their eyes with their hands.
Circling round two or three times above the

The Gift of the Simple King 79

Post, the duck then stretched out its neck to the
west, and floated away beyond Guidon Hill, and
was hid from view. Pierre, without a word, be-
gan cleaning his rifle, while Macavoy smoked,
and sat looking into the distance, surveying the
sweet warmth and light. His face blossomed
with colour, and the look of his eyes was like
that of an irresponsible child. Once or twice
he smiled and puffed in his beard, but perhaps
that was involuntary, or was, maybe, a vague
reflection of his dreams, themselves most vague,
for he was only soaking in sun and air and life.

Within an hour they saw the wild duck again
passing the crest of Guidon, and they watched
it sailing down to the Post, Pierre idly fondling
the gun, Macavoy half roused from his dreams.
But presently they were altogether roused, the
gun was put away, and both were on their feet ;
for after the pigeon arrived there was a stir at
the Post, and Hilton could be seen running
from the store to his house, not far away.

" Something 's wrong there," said Pierre.

"D'ye think 'twas the duck brought pit?"
asked Macavoy.

Without a word Pierre started away toward
the Post, Macavoy following. As they did so, a
half-breed boy came from the house, hurrying
toward them.

8o An Adventurer of the North

Inside the house Hilton's wife lay on her
bed, her great hour coming on before the time,
because of ill news from beyond the Guidon.
There was with her an old Frenchwoman, who
herself, in her time, had brought many children
into the world, whose heart brooded tenderly, if
uncouthly, over the dumb girl. She it was who
had handed to Hilton the paper the wild duck
had brought, after Ida had read it and fallen in
a faint on the floor.

The message that had felled the young wife
was brief and awful. A cloud-burst had fallen
on Champak Hill, had torn part of it away, and
a part of this part had swept down into the path
that led to the little house, having been stopped
by some falling trees and a great boulder. It
blocked the only way to escape above, and
beneath, the river was creeping up to sweep
away the little house. So, there the mother and
her children waited (the father was in the farthest
north), facing death below and above. The wild
duck had carried the tale in its terrible simplic-
ity. The last words were, " There may n't be
any help for me and my sweet chicks, but I am
still hoping, and you must send a man or many.
But send soon, for we are cut off, and the end
may come any hour."

Macavoy and Pierre were soon at the Post,

The Gift of the Simple King 8 1

and knew from Hilton all there was to know.
At once Pierre began to gather men, though
what one or many could do none could say.
Eight white men and three Indians watched the
wild duck sailing away again from the bedroom
window where Ida lay, to carry a word of com-
fort to Champak Hill. Before it went, Ida
asked for Macavoy, and he was brought to her
bedroom by Hilton. He saw a pale, almost un-
earthly, yet beautiful face, flushing and paling
with a coming agony, looking up at him ; and
presently two trembling hands made those mys-
tic signs which are the primal language of the
soul. Hilton interpreted to him this : " I have
sent for you. There is no man so big or strong
as you in the north. I did not know that I
should ever ask you to redeem the note. I want
my gift, and I will give you your paper with the
Queen's head on it. Those little lives, those
pretty little dears, you will not see them die. If
there is a way, any way, you will save them.
Sometimes one man can do what twenty cannot.
You were my wedding-gift : I claim you now."
She paused, and then motioned to the nurse,
who laid the piece of brown paper in Macavoy's
hand. He held it for a moment as delicately as
if it were a fragile bit of glass, something that
his huge fingers might crush by touching. Then

82 An Adventurer of the North

he reached over and laid it on the bed beside
her and said, looking Hilton in the eyes, " Tell
her, the slip av a saint she is! if the breakin' av
me bones, or the lettin' av me blood 's what '11
set all right at Champak Hill, let her mind be
aisy — aw yis!"

Soon afterward they were all on their way —
all save Hilton, whose duty was beside this other
danger, for the old nurse said that, " like as
not," her life would hang upon the news from
Champak Hill ; and if ill came, his place was
beside the speechless traveler on the Brink.

In a few hours the rescuers stood on the top
of Champak Hill, looking down. There stood
the little house, as it were, between two dooms.
Even Pierre's face became drawn and pale as he
saw what a very few hours or minutes might do.
Macavoy had spoken no word, had answered no
question since they had left the Post. There
was in his eyes the large seriousness, the intent-
ness which might be found in the face of a brave
boy, who had not learned fear, and yet saw a
vast ditch of danger at which he must leap.
There was ever before him the face of the dumb
wife ; there was in his ears the sound of pain
that had followed him from Hilton's house out
into the brilliant day.

The men stood helpless, and looked at each

The Gift of the Simple King 83

other. They could not say to the river that it
must rise no farther, and they could not go to
the house, nor let a rope down, and there was
the crumbled moiety of the hill which blocked
the way to the house : elsewhere it was sheer
precipice without trees.

There was no corner in these hills that Mac-
avoy and Pierre did not know, and at last, when
despair seemed to settle on the group, Macavoy,
having spoken a low word to Pierre, said :

"There 's wan way, an' maybe I can an' maybe
I can 't, but I 'm fit to try. I '11 go up the river
to an aisy p'int a mile above, get in, and drift
down to a p'int below there, thin climb up and
loose the stuff."

Every man present knew the double danger :
the swift headlong river, and the sudden rush of
rocks and stones, which must be loosed on the
side of the narrow ravine opposite the little
house. Macavoy had nothing to say to the
head-shakes of the others, and they did not try
to dissuade him ; for women and children were
in the question, and there they were below near
the house, the children gathered round the
mother, she waiting — waiting.

Macavoy stripped to the waist, and carrying
only a hatchet and a coil of rope tied round him,
started away alone up the river. The others

84 An Adventurer of the North

waited, now and again calling comfort to the
woman below, though their words could not be
heard. About half an hour passed, and then
some one called out : " Here he comes ! " Pres-
ently they could see the rough head and the bare
shoulders of the giant in the wild churning
stream. There was only one point where he
could get a hold on the hillside — the jutting bole
of a tree just beneath them, and beneath the
dyke of rock and trees.

It was a great moment. The current swayed
him out, but he plunged forward, catching at the
bole. His hand seized a small branch. It held
him an instant, as he was swung round, then it
snapt. But the other hand clenched the bole,
and to a loud cheer, which Pierre prompted,
Macavoy drew himself up. After that they could
not see him. He alone was studying the situa-
tion. He found the key-rock to the dyked slide
of earth. To loosen it was to divert the slide
away, or partly away from the little house. But
it could not be loosened from above, if at all,
and he himself would be in the path of the de-
stroying hill.

" Aisy, aisy, Tim Macavoy," he said to him-
self. " It's the woman and the darlin's av her,
an' the rose o' the valley down there at the
Post ! "

The Gift of the Simple King 85

A minute afterward, having chopped down a
hickory sapling, he began to pry at the boulder
which held the mass. Presently a tree came
crashing down, and a small rush of earth fol-
lowed it, and the hearts of the men above and
the women and children below stood still for an
instant. An hour passed as Macavoy toiled with
a strange careful skill and a superhuman concen-
tration. His body was all shining with sweat,
and sweat dripped like water from his forehead.
His eyes were on the key-rock and the pile, alert,
measuring, intent. At last he paused. He
looked round at the hills — down at the river, up
at the sky — humanity was shut away from his
sight. He was alone. A long hot breath broke
from his lips, stirring his big red beard. Then
he gave a call, a long call that echoed through
the hills weirdly and solemnly.

It reached the ears of those above like a
greeting from an outside world. They answered,
" Right, Macavoy 1 "

Years afterward these men told how then
there came in reply one word, ringing roundly
through the hills — the note and symbol of a
crisis, the fantastic cipher of a soul —

"McGwrtl"

There was a loud booming sound, the dyke
was loosed, the ravine spilt into the swollen

86 An Adventurer of the North

stream its choking mouthful of earth and rock :
and a minute afterward the path was clear to
the top of Champak Hill. To it came the un-
harmed children and their mother, who, from
the warm peak sent the wild duck " to the rose
o' the valley," which, till the message came, was
trembling on the stem of life. But Joy, that
marvellous healer, kept it blooming with a little
Eden bird nestling near, whose happy tongue
was taught in after years to tell of the gift of The
Simple King : who had redeemed, on demand,
the promissory note forever.

Malachi

" He '11 swing just the same to-morrow. Exit
Malachi ! " said Freddy Tarlton gravely.

The door suddenly opened on the group of
gossips, and a man stepped inside and took the
only vacant seat near the fire. He glanced at
none, but stretched out his hands to the heat,
looking at the coals with drooping introspective
eyes.

" Exit Malachi," he said presently in a soft
ironical voice, but did not look up.

" By the holy poker, Pierre, where did you
spring from ? " asked Tarlton genially.

" The wind bloweth where it listeth, and — "
Pierre responded, with a little turn of his fingers.

" And the wind does n't tell where it 's been,
but that's no reason Pierre shouldn't," urged
the other.

Pierre shrugged his shoulders, but made no
answer.

" He was a tough," said a voice from the
crowd. " To-morrow he '11 get the breakfast he 's
paid for."

87

88 An Adventurer of the North

Pierre turned and looked at the speaker with
a cold inquisitive stare. " Mon Dieu /" he said
presently, " here 's this Gohawk playing preacher.
What do you know of Malachi, Gohawk ? What
do any of you know about Malachi ? A little of
this, a little of that, a drink here, a game of
euchre there, a ride after cattle, a hunt behind
Guidon Hill ! — But what is that ? You have
heard the cry of the eagle, you have seen him
carry off a lamb, you have had a pot-shot at him,
but what do you know of the eagle's nest ? Mat's
non. The lamb is one thing, the nest is another.
You don't know the eagle till you' ve been there.
And you, Gohawk, would not understand, if you
saw the nest. Such cancan ! "

"Shut your mouth!" broke out Gohawk.
"D' ye think I 'm going to stand your — "

Freddy Tarlton laid a hand on his arm.
"Keep quiet, Gohawk. What good will it do ?"
Then he said, "Tell us about the nest, Pierre;
they 're hanging him for the lamb in the morn-
ing."

"Who spoke for him at the trial?" Pierre
asked.

"I did," said Tarlton. "I spoke as well as I
could, but the game was dead against him from
the start. The sheriff was popular, and young ;
young — that was the thing ; handsome, too, and

Malachi Sg

the women, of course ! It was sure from the
start; besides, Malachi would say nothing —
did n't seem to care."

"No, not to care," mused Pierre. "What
did you say for him to the jury? — I mean the
devil of a thing to make them sit up and think,
'Poor Malachi !'— like that."

"Best speech y' ever heard," Gohawk inter-
jected; "just emptied the words out, spilt 'em
like peas, by gol ! till he got to one place right
before the end. Then he pulled up sudden, and
it got so quiet you could 'a heard a pin drop.
'Gen'lemen of the jury,' says Freddy Tarlton
here — gen'lemen, by gol ! all that lot — Lagan
and the rest ! 'Gen'lemen of the jury,' he says,
'be you danged well sure that you 're at one with
God A'mighty in this ; that you 've got at the
core of justice here ; that you 've got evidence
to satisfy Him who you 've all got to satisfy some
day, or git out. Not evidence as to shootin', but
evidence as to what that shootin' meant, an'
whether it was meant to kill, an' what for.'

" ' The case is like this, gen'lemen of the jury,'
says Freddy Tarlton here. 'Two men are in a
street alone. There 's a shot, out comes every-
body, and sees Fargo the sheriff laid along the
ground, his mouth in the dust, and a full-up gun
in his fingers. Not forty feet away stands Mai-

9O An Adventurer of the North

achi with a gun smokin' in his fist. It seems to
be the opinion that it was cussedness — just cuss-
edness — that made Malachi turn the sheriff's
boots to the sun. For Malachi was quarrelsome.
I '11 give you a quarter on that. And the sheriff
was mettlesome, used to have high spirits, like
as if he 's lift himself over the fence with his
boot-straps. So, when Malachi come and saw
the sheriff steppin' round in his paten' leathers,
it give him the needle, and he got a bead on
him — and away went Sheriff Fargo — right away!
That seems to be the sense of the public.' And
he stops again, soft and quick, and looks the
twelve in the eyes at once. 'But,' says Freddy
Tarlton here, 'are you goin' to hang a man on
the little you know? Or are you goin' to credit
him with somethin' of what you do n't know ?
You haint got the inside of this thing, and Mal-
achi does n't let you know it, and God keeps
quiet. But be danged well sure that you 've got
the bulge on iniquity here ; for gen'lemen with
pistols out in the street is one thing, and sittin'
weavin' a rope in a courtroom for a man's neck
is another thing,' says Freddy Tarlton here.
' My client has refused to say one word this or
that way, but do n't be sure that Some One that
knows the inside of things won't speak for him
in the end.'

Malachi 91

"Then he turns and looks at Malachi, and
Malachi was standin' still and steady like a tree,
but his face was white, and sweat poured on his
forehead. ' If God has no voice to be heard for
my client in this courtroom to-day, is there no
one on earth — no man or woman — who can
speak for one who won't speak for himself?'
says Freddy Tarlton here. Then, by gol ! for
the first time Malachi opened. ' There 's no
one,' he says. 'The speakin' is all for the sheriff.
But I spoke once, and the sheriff did n't answer.1
Not a bit of beg-yer-pardon in it. It struck cold.
' I leave his case in the hands of twelve true men,'
says Freddy Tarlton here, and he sits down.

"So they said he must walk the air?" sug-
gested Pierre.

" Without leavin' their seats," some one added
instantly.

"So! But that speech of 'Freddy Tarlton
here'?"

" It was worth twelve drinks to me, no more,
and nothing at all to Malachi," said Tarlton.
"When I said I 'd come to him to night to
cheer him up, he said he 'd rather sleep. The
missionary, too, he can make nothing of him.
' I do n't need anyone here,' he says. ' I eat
this off my own plate.' And that 's the end of
Malachi."

92 An Adventurer of the North

" Because there was no one to speak for him
—eh? Well, well."

" If he 'd said anything that 'd justify the
thing — make it a manslaughter business or a
quarrel — then! But no, not a word, up or down,
high or low. Exit Malachi!" added Freddy
Tarlton sorrowfully. " I wish he 'd given me
half a chance."

" I wish I 'd been there," said Pierre, taking
a match from Gohawk, and lighting his cigar-
ette.

"To hear his speech?" asked Gohawk, nod-
ding toward Tarlton.

" To tell the truth about it all. T 'sh, you
bats, you sheep, what have you in your skulls ?
When a man will not speak, will not lie to gain
a case for his lawyer — or save himself, there is
something ! Now, listen to me, and 1 will tell
you the story of Malachi. Then you shall judge.

"I never saw such a face as that girl had
down there at Lachine in Quebec. I knew her
when she was a child, and I knew Malachi when
he was on the river with the rafts, the foreman
of a gang. He had a look all open then as the
sun — yes. Happy ? Yes, as happy as a man
ought to be. Well, the mother of the child died,
and Malachi alone was left to take care of the
little Norice. He left the river and went to work

Malachi 93

in the mills, so that he might be with the child ;
and when he got to be foreman there he used to
bring her to the mill. He had a basket swung
for her just inside the mill not far from him,
right where she was in the shade ; but if she
stretched out her hand it would be in the
sun. I 've seen a hundred men turn to look at
her where she swung, singing to herself, and
then chuckle to themselves afterward as they
worked.

" When Trevoor, the owner, come one day,
and saw her, he swore, and was going to sack
Malachi, but the child — that little Norice —
leaned over the basket, and offered him an apple.
He looked for a minute, then he reached up,
took the apple, turned round, and went out of
the mill without a word — so. Next month when
he come he walked straight to her, and handed
up to her a box of toys and a silver whistle.
' That's to call me when you want me,' he said,
as he put the whistle to her lips, and then he put
the gold string of it round her neck. She was a
wise little thing, that Norice, and noticed things.
I don 't believe that Trevoor or Malachi ever
knew how sweet was the smell of the fresh saw-
dust till she held it to their noses ; and it was
she that had the saws — all sizes — start one after
the other, making so strange a tune. She made

94 An Adventurer of the North

up a little song about fairies and others to sing
to that tune.

"And no one ever thought much about In-
dian Island, off beyond the sweating, baking
piles of lumber, and the blistering logs and tim-
bers in the bay, till she told stories about it.
Sure enough, when you saw the shut doors and
open windows of those empty houses, all white
without in the sun and dark within, and not a
human to be seen, you could believe almost any-
thing. You can think how proud Malachi was
— ho ! She used to get plenty of presents from
the men who had no wives or children to care
for — little silver and gold things as well as
others. She was fond of them, but no, not vain.
She loved the gold and silver for their own sake."

Pierre paused. " I knew a youngster once,"
said Gohawk, " that — "

Pierre waved his hand. " I 'm not through,
M 'sieu' Gohawk the talker. Years went on.
Now she took care of the house of Malachi. She
wore the whistle that Trevoor gave her. He kept
saying to her still, 'If ever you need me, little
Norice, blow it, and I will come.' He was droll;
that M 'sieu' Trevoor, at times. Well she did
not blow, but still he used to come every year,
and always brought her something. One year
he brought his nephew, a young fellow of about

Malachi 95

twenty-three. She did not whistle for him
either, but he kept on coming. That was the
beginning of ' Exit Malachi.' The man was
clever and bad, the girl believing and good. He
was young, but he knew how to win a woman's
heart. When that is done, there is nothing
more to do — she is yours for good or evil ; and
if a man, through a woman's love, makes her to
sin, even his mother cannot be proud of him —
no. But the man married Norice, and took her
away to Madison, down in Wisconsin. Malachi
was left alone — Malachi and Trevoor, for Tre-
voor felt to her as a father.

" Ators, sorrow come to the girl, for her hus-
band began to play cards and to drink, and he
lost much money. There was the trouble — the
two together. They lived in a hotel. One day
a lady missed a diamond necklace from her
room. Norice had been with her the night
before. Norice come into her own room the
next afternoon, and found detectives searching.
In her own jewel-case, which was tucked away in
the pocket of an old dress, was found the neck-
lace. She was arrested. She said nothing — for
she waited for her husband, who was out of town
that day. He only come in time to see her in
court next morning. She did not deny any-
thing ; she was quiet like Malachi. The man

96 An Adventurer of the North

played his part well. He had hid the necklace
where he thought it would be safe, but when it
was found, he let the wife take the blame — a lit-
tle innocent thing. People were sorry for them
both. She was sent to jail. Her father was
away in the Rocky Mountains, and he did not
hear ; Trevoor was in Europe. The husband
got a divorce, and was gone. Norice was in jail
for over a year, and then she was set free, for her
health went bad, and her mind was going, they
thought. She did not know till she come out
that she was divorced. Then she nearly died.
But then Trevoor come."

Freddy Tarlton's hands were cold with ex-
citement, and his fingers trembled so he could
hardly light a cigar.

" Go on, go on, Pierre," he said huskily.

" Trevoor said to her — he told me this him-
self— ' Why did you not whistle for me, Norice ?
A word would have brought me from Europe.'
'No one could help me, no one at all,' she
answered. Then Trevoor said, ' I know who did
it, for he has robbed me too.' She sank in a
heap on the floor. ' I could have stood it and
anything for him, if he hadn't divorced me,'
she said. Then they cleared her name before
the world. But where was the man ? No one
knew. At last Malachi, in the Rocky Mountains,

Malachi 97

heard of her trouble, for Norice wrote to him,
but told him not to do the man any harm, if he
ever found him — ah, a woman, a woman ! . . .
But Malachi met the man one day at Guidon
Hill, and shot him in the street."

" Fargo the sheriff!" said half-a-dozen voices.

" Yes ; he had changed his name, had come
up here, and because he was clever and spent
money, and had a pull on someone, — got it at
cards, perhaps, — he was made sheriff."

"In God's name, why did n't Malachi speak?"
said Tarlton ; "why didn't he tell me this?"

" Because he and I had our own plans. The
one evidence he wanted was Norice. If she
would come to him in his danger, and in spite
of his killing the man, good. If not, then he
would die. Well, I went to find her and fetch
her. I found her. There was no way to send
word, so we had to come on as fast as we could.
We have come just in time."

" Do ye mean to say that she 's here, Pierre?"
said Gohawk.

Pierre waved his hand emphatically. " And
so we came on with a pardon."

Every man was on his feet, every man's
tongue was loosed, and each ordered liquor
for Pierre, and asked him where the girl was.
Freddy Tarlton wrung his hand, and called a

g8 An Adventurer of the North

boy to go to his rooms and bring three bottles
of wine, which he had kept for two years, to
drink when he had won his first big case.

Gohawk was importunate. " Where is the
girl, Pierre?" he urged.

"Such a fool as you are, Gohawk! She is
with her father."

A half-hour later, in a large sitting-room,
Freddy Tarlton was making eloquent toasts over
the wine. As they all stood drinking to Pierre,
the door opened from the hallway, and Malachi
stood before them. At his shoulder was a face,
wistful, worn, yet with a kind of happiness, too ;
and the eyes had depths which any man might
be glad to drown his heart in.

Malachi stood still, not speaking, and an awe
or awkwardness fell on the group at the table.

But Norice stepped forward a little, and said :
"May we come in?"

In an instant Freddy Tarlton was by her side,
and had her by the hand, her and her father,
drawing them over.

His ardent, admiring look gave Norice
thought for many a day.

And that night Pierre made an accurate
prophecy.

The Lake of the Great Slave

When Tybalt the tale-gatherer asked why it
was so called, Pierre said: "Because of the
Great Slave;" and then paused.

Tybalt did not hurry Pierre, knowing his
whims. If he wished to tell, he would in his own
time; if not, nothing could draw it from him.
It was nearly an hour before Pierre eased off
from the puzzle he was solving with bits of paper
and obliged Tybalt. He began as if they had
been speaking the moment before :

"They have said it is legend, but I know
better. I have seen the records of the Com-
pany, and it is all there. I was at Fort O'Glory
once, and in a box two hundred years old the
factor and I found it. There were other papers,
and some of them had large red seals, and a
name scrawled along the end of the page."

Pierre shook his head, as if in contented
musing. He was a born story-teller. Tybalt
was aching with interest, for he scented a thing
of note.

99

IOO An Adventurer of the North

" How did any of those papers, signed with a
scrawl, begin?" he asked.

" ' To our dearly-beloved? or something like
that," answered Pierre. "There were letters
also. Two of them were full of harsh words,
and these were signed with the scrawl."

"What was that scrawl ? " asked Tybalt.

Pierre stooped to the sand, and wrote two
words with his finger. " Like that," he an-
swered.

Tybalt looked intently for an instant, and
then drew a long breath. " Charles Rex" he
said, hardly above his breath.

Pierre gave him a suggestive sidelong glance.
"That name was droll, eh ?"

Tybalt's blood was tingling with the joy of
discovery. " It is a great name," he said,
shortly.

"The Slave was great — the Indians said so
at the last."

" But that was not the name of the Slave ? "

" Mais non. Who said so ? Charles Rex — >
like that ! was the man who wrote the letters."

" To the Great Slave ? "

Pierre made a gesture of impatience. " Very
sure."

"Where are those letters now ?"

"With the Governor of the Company."

The Lake of the Great Slave 101

Tybalt cut the tobacco for his pipe sav-
agely.

" You 'd have liked one of those papers ?"
asked Pierre, provokingly.

" I 'd give five hundred dollars for one ! "
broke out Tybalt.

Pierre lifted his eyebrows. " T'sh, what 's the
good of five hundred dollars up here? What
would you do with a letter like that? "

Tybalt laughed with a touch of irony, for
Pierre was clearly "rubbing it in."

" Perhaps for a book ? " gently asked Pierre.

" Yes, if you like."

" It is a pity. But there is a way."

"How?"

" Put me in the book. Then -

" How does that touch the case ? "

Pierre shrugged a shoulder gently, for he
thought Tybalt was unusually obtuse. Tybalt
thought so himself before the episode ended.

" Go on," he said, with clouded brow, but
interested eye. Then, as if with sudden thought :
" To whom were the letters addressed, Pierre ?"
" Wait ! " was the reply. " One letter said :
' Good cousin, We are evermore glad to have
thee and thy most excelling mistress near us.
So, fail us not at our cheerful doings yonder at
Highgate. ' Another — a year after — said:

IO2 An Adventurer of the North

' Cousin, for the sweetening of our mind, get
thee gone into some distant corner of our pas-
turage— the farthest doth please us most. We
would not have thee on foreign ground, for we
bear no ill-will to our brother princes, and yet
we would not have thee near our garden of good
loyal souls, for thou hast a rebel heart and a
tongue of divers tunes — thou lovest not the
good old song of duty to thy prince. Obeying
us, thy lady shall keep thine estates untouched ;
failing obedience, thou wilt make more than thy
prince unhappy. Fare thee well.' That was
the way of two letters," said Pierre.

" How do you remember so ? "

Pierre shrugged a shoulder again. " It is
easy with things like that."

"But word for word?"

" I learned it word for word."

" Now for the story of the Lake — if you
won 't tell me the name of the man."

"The name afterward — perhaps. Well, he
came to that farthest corner of the pasturage, to
the Hudson's Bay country, two hundred years
ago. What do you think ? Was he so sick of
all, that he would go so far he could never get
back ? Maybe those 'cheerful doings' at High-
gate, eh ? And the lady — who can tell ?"

Tybalt seized Pierre's arm. " You <knew

The Lake of the Great Slave 103

more. Damnation ! can 't you see I 'm on
needles to hear ? Was there anything in the
letters about the lady? — anything more than
you've told ?"

Pierre liked no man's hand on him. He
glanced down at the eager fingers, and said
coldly :

" You are a great man ; you can tell a story
in many ways, but I in one way alone, and that
is my way — mats out ! "

" Very well, take your own time."

" Bien. I got the story from two heads. If
you hear a thing like that from Indians, you call
it legend ; if from the Company's papers, you
call it history. Well, in this there is not much
difference. The papers tell precise the facts ;
the legend gives the feeling, is more true. How
can you judge the facts if you do n't know the
feeling ? No ! what is bad turns good some-
times, when you know the how, the feeling, the
place. Well, this story of the Great Slave — eh !
. . . There is a race of Indians in the far north
who have hair so brown like yours, m'sieu', and
eyes no darker. It is said they are of those that
lived at the Pole, before the sea swamped the
Isthmus, and swallowed up so many islands. So
in those days the fair race came to the south for
the first time, that is, far below the Circle. They

104 An Adventurer of the North

had their women with them. I have seen those
of to-day : fine and tall, with breasts like apples,
and a cheek to tempt a man like you, m'sieu' ;
no grease in the hair — no, M'sieu' Tybalt ! "

Tybalt sat moveless under the obvious irony,
but his eyes were fixed intently on Pierre, his
mind ever traveling far ahead of the tale.

"Alors: the 'good cousin' of Charles Rex,
he made a journey with two men to the Far-off
Metal River, and one day this tribe from the
north come on his camp. It was summer, and
they were camping in the Valley of the Young
Moon, more sweet, they say, than any in the
north. The Indians cornered them. There was
a fight, and one of the Company's men was
killed, and five of the other. But when the king
of the people of the Pole saw that the great man
was fair of face, he called for the fight to stop.

"There was a big taik all by signs, and the
king said for the great man to come and be one
with them, for they liked his fair face — their
fore-fathers were fair like him. He should have
the noblest of their women for his wife, and be a
prince among them. He would not go : so they
drew away again and fought. A stone-axe
brought the great man to the ground. He was
stunned, not killed. Then the other man gave
up, and said he would be one of them if they

The Lake of the Great Slave 105

would take him. They would have killed him
but for one of their women. She said that he
should live to tell them tales of the south coun-
try and the strange people, when they came
again to their camp-fires. So they let him live,
and he was one of them. But the chief man,
because he was stubborn and scorned them, and
had killed the son of their king in the fight, they
made a slave, and carried him north a captive, till
they came to this lake — the Lake of the Great
Slave.

" In all ways they tried him, but he would
not yield, neither to wear their dress nor to wor-
ship their gods. He was robbed of his clothes,
of his gold-handled dagger, his belt of silk and
silver, his carbine with rich chasing, and all, and
he was among them almost naked, — it was sum-
mer, as I said, — yet defying them. He was
taller by a head than any of them, and his white
skin rippled in the sun like soft steel."

Tybalt was inclined to ask Pierre how he
knew all this, but he held his peace. Pierre, as
if divining his thoughts, continued :

" You ask how I know these things. Very
good : there are the legends, and there were the
papers of the Company. The Indians tried
every way, but it was no use ; he would have
nothing to say to them. At last they come to

106 An Adventurer of the North

this lake. Now something great occurred. The
woman who had been the wife of the king's dead
son, her heart went out in love of the Great
Slave ; but he never looked at her. One day
there were great sports, for it was the Feast of
the Red Star. The young men did feats of
strength, here on this ground where we sit. The
king's wife called out for the Great Slave to
measure strength with them all. He would not
stir. The king commanded him ; still he would
not, but stood among them silent and looking
far away over their heads. At last, two young
men of good height and bone threw arrows at
his bare breast. The blood came in spots. Then
he give a cry through his beard, and was on
them like a lion. He caught them, one in each
arm, swung them from the ground, and brought
their heads together with a crash, breaking their
skulls, and dropped them at his feet. Catching
up a long spear, he waited for the rest. But
they did not come, for, with a loud voice, the
king told them to fall back, and went and felt the
bodies of the men. One of them was dead ; the
other was his second son — he would live.

"'It is a great deed,' said the king, 'for these
were no children, but strong men.'

" Then again he offered the Great Slave
women to marry, and fifty tents of deerskin for

The Lake of the Great Slave 107

the making of a village. But the Great Slave
said no, and asked to be sent back to Fort
O'Glory.

"The king refused. But that night, as he
slept in his tent, the girl-widow came to him,
waked him, and told him to follow her. He
came forth, and she led him softly through the
silent camp to that wood which we see over
there. He told her she need not go on. With-
out a word, she reached over and kissed him on
the breast Then he understood. He told her
that she could not come with him, for there was
that lady in England — his wife, eh ? But never
mind, that will come. He was too great to save
his life, or be free at the price. Some are born
that way. They have their own commandments
and they keep them.

" He told her that she must go back. She
gave a little cry, and sank down at his feet, say-
ing that her life would be in danger if she went
back.

" Then he told her to come ; for it was in
his mind to bring her to Fort O* Glory, where
she could marry an Indian there. But now she
would not go with him, and turned toward the
village. A woman is a strange creature — yes,
like that ! He refused to go and leave her.
She was in danger, and he would share it, what-

108 An Adventurer of the North

ever it might be. So, though she prayed him
not, he went back with her ; and when she saw
that he would go in spite of all, she was glad :
which is like a woman.

" When he entered the tent again, he guessed
her danger, for he stepped over the bodies of
two dead men. She had killed them. As she
turned at the door to go to her own tent, another
woman faced her. It was the wife of the king,
who had suspected, and had now found out.
Who can tell what it was ? Jealousy, perhaps.
The Great Slave could tell, maybe, if he could
speak, for a man always knows when a woman
sets him high. Anyhow, that was the way it
stood. In a moment the girl was marched back
to her tent, and all the camp heard a wicked lie
of the widow of the king's son.

"To it there was an end, after the way of
their laws. The woman should die by fire, and
the man as the king might will. So there was a
great gathering in the place where we are, and
the king sat against that big white stone, which
is now as it was then. Silence was called, and
they brought the girl-widow forth. The king
spoke :

" ' Thou who hadst a prince for thy husband,
didst go in the night to the tent of the slave
who killed thy husband ; whereby thou also

The Lake of the Great Slave 109

becamest a slave, and didst shame the great-
ness which was given thee. Thou shalt die, as
has been set in our law.'

"The girl-widow rose and spoke: 'I did
not know, O king, that he whom thou mad'st a
slave slew my husband, the prince of our people,
and thy son. That was not told me. But had
I known it, still would I have set him free, for
thy son was killed in fair battle, and this man
deserves not slavery or torture. I did seek the
tent of the Great Slave, and it was to set him
free — no more. For that did I go, and, for the
rest, my soul is open to the Spirit Who Sees. I
have done naught, and never did, nor ever will,
that might shame a king, or the daughter of a
king, or the wife of a king, or a woman. If to
set a great captive free is death for me, then am
I ready. I will answer all pure women in the
far Camp of the Great Fires without fear. There
is no more, O king, that I may say, but this :
She who dies by fire, being of noble blood, may
choose who shall light the faggots — is it not
so?'

" Then the king replied : 'It is so ; such is
our law.'

" There was counselling between the king
and his oldest men, and so long were they hand-
ing the matter back and forth that it looked as

HO An Adventurer of the North

if she might go free. But the king's wife, see-
ing, came and spoke to the king and the
others, crying out for the honor of her dead
son ; so that in a moment of anger they all
cried out for death.

" When the king said again to the girl that
she must die by fire, she answered : 'It is as the
gods will. But it is so, as I said, that I may
choose who shall light the fires ? '

" The king answered yes, and asked her whom
she chose. She pointed towards the Great SJave.
And all, even the king and his councillors, won-
dered, for they knew little of the heart of women.
What is a man with a matter like that ? Noth-
ing— nothing at all. They would have set this
for punishment : that she should ask for it was
beyond them. Yes, even the king's wife — it was
beyond her. But the girl herself, see you, was
it not this way ? — If she died by the hand of him
she loved, then it would be easy, for she could
forget the pain, in the thought that his heart
would ache for her, and that at the very last he
might care, and she should see it. She was
great in her way also — that girl, two hundred
years ago.

" Alors, they led her a little distance off, —
there is the spot, where you see the ground heave
a little, — and the Great Slave was brought up.

The Lake of the Great Slave in

The king told him why the girl was to die. He
stood like stone, looking, looking at them. He
knew that the girl's heart was like a little child's,
and the shame and cruelty of the thing froze
him silent for a minute, and the color flew from
his face to here and there on his body, as a flame
on marble. The cords began to beat and throb
in his neck and on his forehead, and his eyes
gave out fire like flint on an arrow-head.

"Then he began to talk. He could not say
much, for he knew so little of their language.
But it was 'No ! ' every other word. ' No — no —
no — no ! ' the words ringing from his chest.
' She is good ! ' he said. ' The other — no ! ' and
he made a motion with his hand. ' She must
not die — no ! Evil ? It is a lie ! I will kill
each man that says it, one by one, if he dares
come forth. She tried to save me — well ? '

" Then he made them know that he was of high
place in a far country, and that a man like him
would not tell a lie. That pleased the king, for
he was proud, and he saw that the Slave was of
better stuff than himself. Besides, the king was
a brave man, and he had strength, and more than
once he had laid his hand on the chest of the
other, as one might on a grand animal. Per-
haps, even then, they might have spared the girl
was it not for the queen. She would not hear

112

of it. Then they tried the Great Slave, and he
was found guilty. The queen sent him word to
beg for pardon. So he stood out and spoke to
the queen. She sat up straight, with pride in
her eyes, for was it not a great prince, as she
thought, asking ? But a cloud fell on her face,
for he begged the girl's life. Since there must
be death, let him die, and die by fire in her
place ! It was then two women cried out : the
poor girl for joy — not at the thought that her
life would be saved, but because she thought the
man loved her now, or he would not offer to die
for her ; and the queen for hate, because she
thought the same. You can guess the rest :
they were both to die, though the king was sorry
for the man.

"The king's speaker stood out and asked
them if they had anything to say. The girl
stepped forward, her face without any fear, but
a kind of noble pride in it, and said : ' I am
ready, O king.'

" The Great Slave bowed his head, and was
thinking much. They asked him again, and he
waved his hand at them. The king spoke up in
anger, and then he smiled and said : ' O king, I
am not ready ; if I die, I die.' Then he fell to
thinking again. But once more the king spoke :
' Thou shall surely die, but not by fire, nor now ;

The Lake of the Great Slave 113

nor till we have come to our great camp in our
own country. There thou shalt die. But the
woman shall die at the going down of the sun.
She shall die by fire, and thou shalt light the
faggots for the burning.'

" The Great Slave said he would not do it,
not though he should die a hundred deaths.
Then the king said that it was the woman's right
to choose who should start the fire, and he had
given his word, which should not be broken.

"When the Great Slave heard this he was
wild for a little, and then he guessed altogether
what was in the girl's mind. Was not this the
true thing in her, the very truest? Mais out.'
That was what she wished — to die by his
hand rather than by any other ; and something
troubled his breast, and a cloud came in his
eyes, so that for a moment he could not see. He
looked at the girl, so serious, eye to eye. Per-
haps she understood. So, after a time, he got
calm as the farthest light in the sky, his face
shining among them all with a look none could
read. He sat down, and wrote upon pieces of
bark with a spear-point — those bits of bark I
have seen also at Fort O'Glory. He pierced
them through with dried strings of the slippery-
elm tree, and with the king's consent gave them
to the Company's man, who had become one of

114 An Adventurer of the North

the people, telling him, if ever he was free, or
could send them to the Company, he must do
so. The man promised, and shame came upon
him that he had let the other suffer alone ; and
he said he was willing to fight and die if the
Great Slave gave the word. But he would not ;
and he urged that it was right for the man to
save his life. For himself, no. It could never
be ; and if he must die, he must die.

"You see, a great man must always live alone
and die alone, when there are only such people
about him. So, now that the letters were writ-
ten, he sat upon the ground and thought, look-
ing often towards the girl, who was placed apart
with guards near. The king sat thinking also.
He could not guess why the Great Slave should
give the letters now, since he was not yet to die,
nor could the Company's man show a reason
when the king asked him. So the king waited,
and told the guards to see that the Great Slave
should not kill himself.

" But the queen wanted the death of the girl,
and was glad beyond telling that the Slave must
light the faggots. She was glad when she saw
the young braves bring a long sapling from the
forest, and, digging a hole, put it stoutly in the
ground, and fetch wood, and heap it about.

" The Great Slave noted that the bark of the

The Lake of the Great Slave 1 1 5

sapling had not been stripped, and more than
once he measured, with his eye, the space be-
tween the stake and the shores of the Lake ;
he did this most private, so that no one saw but
the girl.

" At last the time was come. The Lake was
all rose and gold out there in the west, and the
water so still — so still. The cool, moist scent of
the leaves and grass came out from the woods
and up from the plain, and the world was so full
of content that a man's heart could cry out,
even as now, while we look — eh, is it not good?
See the deer drinking on the other shore there!"

Suddenly he became silent, as if he had for-
gotten the story altogether. Tybalt was impa-
tient, but he did not speak. He took a twig,
and in the sand he wrote " Charles Rex'' Pierre
glanced down and saw it.

" There was beating of the little drums," he
continued, "and the crying of the king's speaker;
and soon all was ready, and the people gathered
at a distance, and the king and the queen, and
the chief men nearer ; and the girl was brought
forth.

" As they led her past the Great Slave, she
looked into his eyes, and afterwards her heart
was glad, for she knew that at the last he would
be near her, and that his hand should light the

Ii6 An Adventurer of the North

fires. Two men tied her to the stake. Then
the king's man cried out again, telling of her
crime, and calling for her death. The Great
Slave was brought near. No one knew that the
palms of his hands had been rubbed in the sand
for a purpose. When he was brought beside the
stake a torch was given him by his guards. He
looked at the girl, and she smiled at him, and
said : ' Good-bye. Forgive. I die not afraid,
and happy.'

" He did not answer, but stooped and lit the
sticks here and there. All at once he snatched
a burning stick, and it and the torch he thrust,
like lightning, in the faces of his guards, blind-
ing them. Then he sprang to the stake, and,
with a huge pull, tore it from the ground, girl
and all, and rushed to the shore of the Lake,
with her tied so in his arms.

" He had been so swift, that, at first, no one
stirred. He reached the shore, rushed into the
water, dragging a boat out with one hand as he
did so, and, putting the girl in, seized a paddle
and was away with a start. A few strokes, and
then he stopped, picked up a hatchet that was in
the boat with many spears, and freed the girl.
Then he paddled on, trusting, with a small hope,
that through his great strength he could keep
on ahead till darkness came, and then, in the

The Lake of the Great Slave 117

gloom, they might escape. The girl also seized
an oar, and the canoe — the king's own canoe —
came on like a swallow.

" But the tribe was after tnem in fifty canoes,
some coming straight along, some spreading
out, to close in later. It was no equal game, for
these people were so quick and strong with the
oars, and they were a hundred or more to two.
There could be but one end. It was what the
Great Slave had looked for : to fight till the last
breath. He should fight for the woman who
had risked all for him — just a common woman
of the north, but it seemed good to lose his
life for her ; and she would be happy to die with
him.

" So they stood side by side when the spears
and arrows fell round them, and they gave death
and wounds for wounds in their own bodies.
When, at last, the Indians climbed into the
canoe, the Great Slave was dead of many wounds,
and the woman, all gashed, lay with her lips to
his wet, red cheek. She smiled as they dragged
her away ; and her soul hurried after his to the
Camp of the Great Fires."

It was long before Tybalt spoke, but at last
he said : " If I could but tell it as you have
told it to me, Pierre !"

Pierre answered : " Tell it with your tongue,

1 1 8 An Adventurer of the North

and this shall be nothing to it, for what am I ?
What English have I, a gipsy of the snows ?
But do not write it, mats non! Writing wanders
from the matter. The eyes, and the tongue,
and the time, that is the thing. But in a book!
— it will sound all cold and thin. It is for the
north, for the camp-fire, for the big talk before
a man rolls into his blanket, and is at peace.
No ! no writing, monsieur. Speak it everywhere
with your tongue."

" And so I would, were my tongue as yours.
Pierre, tell me more about the letters at Fort
O' Glory. You know his name — what was it ?

" You said five hundred dollars for one of
those letters. Is it not?"

"Yes." Tybalt had a new hope.

"T'sh! What do I want of five hundred
dollars ! But, here, answer me a question : Was
the lady — his wife, she that was left in England
— a good woman ? Answer me out of your own
sense, and from my story; If you say right you
shall have a letter — one that I have by me."

Tybalt's heart leaped into his throat. After a
little he said huskily : " She was a good woman
— he believed her that, and so shall I."

" You think he could not have been so great
unless, eh ? And that ' Charles Rex,' what of
him ?"

The Lake of the Great Slave ng

" What good can it do to call him bad now ?"

Without a word, Pierre drew from a leather
wallet a letter, and, by the light of the fast-set-
ting sun, Tybalt read it, then read it again, and
yet again.

"Poor soul 1 poor lady!" he said. "Was
ever such another letter written to any man ?
And it came too late ; this, with the king's re-
call, came too late ! "

" So — so. He died out there where that wild
duck flies — a Great Slave. Years after, the
Company's man brought word of all."

Tybalt was looking at the name on the out-
side of the letter.

" How do they call that name ? " asked
Pierre. " It is like none I 've seen — no."

Tybalt shook his head sorrowfully, and did
not answer.

The Red Patrol

St. Augustine's, Canterbury, had given him
its licentiate's hood, the Bishop of Rupert's
Land had ordained him, and the north had
swallowed him up. He had gone forth with sur-
plice, stole, hood, a sermon-case, the prayer-
book, and that other book of all. Indian camps,
trappers' huts, and Company's posts had given
him hospitality, and had heard him with patience
and consideration. At first he wore the surplice,
stole, and hood, took the eastward position, and
intoned the service, and no man said him nay,
but watched him curiously and was sorrowful —
he was so youthful, clear of eye, and bent on
doing heroical things.

But little by little there came a change. The
hood was left behind at Fort O'Glory, where it
provoked the derision of the Methodist mission-
ary who followed him ; the sermon-case stayed
at Fort O'Battle ; and at last the surplice itself
was put by at the Company's post at Yellow Quill.
He was too excited and in earnest at first to see
the effect of his ministrations, but there came
120

The Red Patrol 121

slowly over him the knowledge that he was talk-
ing into space. He felt something returning on
him out of the air into which he talked, and buf-
fetting him. It was the Spirit of the North, in
which lives the awful natural, the large heart of
things, the soul of the past. He awoke to his
inadequacy, to the fact that all these men to
whom he talked, listened, and only listened, and
treated him with a gentleness which was almost
pity — as one might a woman. He had talked
doctrine, the Church, the sacraments, and at
Fort O'Battle he faced definitely the futility of
his work. What was to blame — the Church —
religion — himself ?

It was at Fort O'Battle he met Pierre, that he
heard some one say over his shoulder as he
walked out into the icy dusk : " The voice of one
crying in the wilderness. . . . and he had
sackcloth about his loins, and his food was locusts
and wild honey"

He turned to see Pierre, who in the large
room of the Post had sat and watched him as he
prayed and preached. He had remarked the
keen, curious eye, the musing look, the habitual
disdain at the lips. It had all touched him, con-
fused him ; and now he had a kind of anger.

" You know it so well, why don 't you preach
yourself ? " he said feverishly.

122 An Adventurer of the North

" I have been preaching all my life," Pierre
answered drily.

" The devil's games : cards and law-breaking ;
and you sneer at men who try to bring lost sheep
into the fold."

" The fold of the Church — yes, I understand
all that," Pierre answered. " I have heard you
and the priests of my father's Church talk.
Which is right ? But as for me, I am a mis-
sionary. Cards, law-breaking — these are what I
have done ; but these are not what I have
preached."

" What have you preached ?" asked the other,
walking on into the fast gathering night, be-
yond the Post and the Indian lodges, into the
wastes where frost and silence lived.

Pierre waved his hand towards space.
"This," he said suggestively.

" What 's this ? " asked the other fretfully.

" The thing you feel round you here."

" I feel the cold," was the petulant reply.

" I feel the immense, the far off," said Pierre
slowly.

The other did not understand as yet.
" You 've learned big words," he said disdain-
fully.

" No ; big things," rejoined Pierre sharply —
" a few."

The Red Patrol 123

" Let me hear you preach them," half snarled
Sherburne.

" You will not like to hear them — no."

" I 'm not likely to think about them one
way or another," was the contemptuous reply.

Pierre's eyes half closed. The young, im-
petuous, half-baked college man! To set his
little knowledge against his own studious vaga-
bondage ! At that instant he determined to
play a game and win ; to turn this man into a
vagabond also ; to see John the Baptist become
a Bedouin. He saw the doubt, the uncertainty,
the shattered vanity in the youth's mind, the
missionary's half retreat from his cause. A cri-
sis was at hand. The lad was fretful with his
great theme, instead of being severe upon him-
self. For days and days Pierre's presence had
acted on Sherburne silently but forcibly. He
had listened to the vagabond's philosophy, and
knew that it was of a deeper — so much deeper
— knowledge of life than he himself possessed,
and he knew also that it was terribly true ; he
was not wise enough to see it was only true in
part. The influence had been insidious, deli-
cate, cunning, and he himself was only "a voice
crying in the wilderness," without the simple
creed of that voice. He knew that the Meth-

124 An Adventurer of the North

odist missionary was believed in more, if less
liked, than himself.

Pierre would work now with all the latent
devilry of his nature to unseat the man from
his saddle.

" You have missed a great thing, alors, though
you have been up here two years," he said.
" You do not feel ; you do not know. What
good have you done ? Who has got on his
knees and changed his life because of you ?
Who has told his beads or longed for the Mass
because of you ? Tell me, who has ever said,
' You have showed me how to live' ? Even the
women, though they cry sometimes when you
sing-song your prayers, go on just the same
when the little ' bless you' is over. Why ? Most
of them know a better thing than you tell them.
Here is the truth : you are little — eh, so very
little. You never lied — direct ; you never stole
the waters that are sweet ; you never knew the
big dreams that come with wine in the dead of
night ; you never swore at your own soul and
heard it laugh back at you ; you never put your
face in the breast of a woman — do not look so
wild at me! — you never had a child; you
never saw the world and yourself through the
doors of real life. You never have said, ' I am
tired ; I am sick of all ; I have seen all.'

The Red Patrol 125

"You have never felt what came after — under-
standing. Chut, your talk is for children — and
missionaries. You are a prophet without a call,
you are a leader without a man to lead, you are
less than a child up here. For here the children
feel a peace in their blood when the stars come
out, and a joy in their brains when the dawn
comes up and reaches a yellow hand to the Pole,
and the west wind shouts at them. Holy Mother!
we in the far north, we feel things ; for all
the great souls of the dead are up there at the
Pole in the pleasant land, and we have seen the
Scarlet Hunter and the Kimash Hills. You
have seen nothing. You have only heard, and
because, like a child, you have never sinned,
you come and preach to us ! "

The night was folding down fast, all the stars
were shooting out into their places, and in the
north the white lights of the aurora were flying
to and fro.

Pierre had spoken with a slow force and
precision, yet, as he went on, his eyes almost
became fixed on those shifting flames, and a
deep look came into them, as he was moved by
his own eloquence. Never in his life had he
made so long a speech at once. He paused,
and then said suddenly : " Come, let us run."

He broke into a long, sliding trot, and Sher-

126 An Adventurer of the North

burne did the same. With their arms gathered
to their sides they ran for quite two miles with-
out a word, until the heavy breathing of the
clergyman brought Pierre up suddenly.

" You do not run well," he said ; " you do
not run with the whole body. You know so
little. Did you ever think how much such men
as Jacques Parfaite know ? The earth they read
like a book, the sky like an animal's ways, and
a man's face like — like the writing on the wall."

" Like the writing on the wall," said Sher-
burne, musing ; for, under the other's influence,
his petulance was gone. He knew that he was
not a part of this life, that he was ignorant of
it ; of, indeed, all that was vital in it and in men
and women.

"I think you began this too soon. You
should have waited ; then you might have done
good. But here we are wiser than you. You
have no message — no real message — to give us ;
down in your heart you are not even sure of
yourself."

Sherburne sighed. " I 'm of no use," he
said ; " I '11 get out ; I 'm no good at all."

Pierre's eyes glistened. He remembered
how, the day before, this youth had said hot
words about his card-playing ; had called him
— in effect — a thief; had treated him as an in-

The Red Patrol 127

ferior, as became one who was of St. Augustine's,
Canterbury.

" It is the great thing to be free," Pierre said,
" that no man shall look for this or that of you.
Just to do as far as you feel — as far as you are
sure — that is the best. In this you are not
sure — no. Hein, is it not ? "

Sherburne did not answer. Anger, distrust,
wretchedness, the spirit of the alien, loneliness,
were alive in him. The magnetism of this deep,
penetrating man, possessed of a devil, was on
him, and in spite of every reasonable instinct
he turned to him for companionship.

"It's been a failure," he burst out, "and
I'm sick of it — sick of it ; but I can't give it
up."

Pierre said nothing. They had come to what
seemed a vast semicircle of ice and snow — a
huge amphitheatre in the plains. It was won-
derful : a great round wall on which the north-
ern lights played, into which the stars peered.
It was open towards the north, and in one side
was a fissure shaped like a gothic arch. Pierre
pointed to it, and they did not speak till they
had passed through it. Like great seats the
steppes of snow ranged round, and in the center
was a kind of plateau of ice, as it might seem a
stage or an altar. To the north there was a huge

128 An Adventurer of the North

opening, the lost arc of the circle, through
which the mystery of the Pole swept in and out,
or brooded there where no man may question
it. Pierre stood and looked. Time and again
he had been here, and had asked the same ques-
tion : Who had ever sat on those frozen benches
and looked down at the drama on that stage be-
low ? Who played the parts ? was it a farce or
a sacrifice ? To him had been given the sorrow
of imagination, and he wondered and wondered.
Or did they come still — those strange people,
whoever they were — and watch ghostly gladia-
tors at their fatal sport ? If they came, when
was it ? Perhaps they were there now, unseen.
In spite of himself he shuddered. Who was the
keeper of the house ?

Through his mind there ran — pregnant to
him for the first time — a chanson of the Scarlet
Hunter, the Red Patrol, who guarded the sleepers
in the Kimash Hills against the time they should
awake and possess the land once more: the friend
of the lost, the lover of the vagabond, and- of all
who had no home :

" Strangers come to the outer walls—

( Why do the sleepers stir ?)
Strangers enter the Judgment House —

( Why do the sleepers sigh ?)
Slow they rise in their judgment seats,

The Red Patrol 129

Sieve and measure the naked souls,
Then with a blessing return to sleep —

( Quiet the Judgment House.)
Lone and sick are the vagrant souls —

( When shall the world come home f) ' '

He reflected upon the words, and a feeling of
awe came over him, for he had been in the White
Valley and had seen the Scarlet Hunter. But
there came at once also a sinister desire to play
a game for this man's life-work here. He knew
that the other was ready for any wild move ;
there was upon him the sense of failure and dis-
gust ; he was acted on by the magic of the
night, the terrible delight of the scene, and that
might be turned to advantage.

He said : " Am I not right ? There is some-
thing in the world greater than the creeds and
the book of the Mass. To be free and to enjoy,
that is the thing. Never before have you felt
what you feel here now. And I will show you
more. I will teach you how to know, I will lead
you- through all the north a'nd make you to
understand the big things of life. Then, when
you have known, you can return if you will. But
now — See : I will tell you what I will do. Here
on this great platform we will play a game of
cards. There is a man whose life I can ruin.
If you win I promise to leave him safe, and to

130 An Adventurer of the North

go out of the far north forever, to go back to
Quebec " — he had a kind of gaming fever in his
veins. " If I win, you give up the Church, leav-
ing behind the prayer-book, the Bible and all,
coming with me to do what I shall tell you, for
the passing of twelve moons. It is a great stake
— will you play it ? Come " — he leaned for-
ward, looking into the other's face — " will you
play it ? They drew lots — those people in the
Bible. We will draw lots, and see, eh ? — and
see ? "

" I accept the stake," said Sherburne, with a
little gasp.

Without a word they went upon that plat-
form, shaped like an altar, and Pierre at once
drew out a pack of cards, shuffling them with his
mittened hands. Then he knelt down and said,
as he laid out the cards one by one till there
were thirty : " Whoever gets the ace of hearts
first, wins — hein ? "

Sherburne nodded and knelt also. The cards
lay back upward in three rows. For a moment
neither stirred. The white, metallic stars saw it,
the small crescent moon beheld it, and the deep
wonder of night made it strange and dreadful.
Once or twice Sherburne looked round as though
he felt others present, and once Pierre looked
out to the wide portals, as though he saw some

The Red Patrol 131

one entering. But there was nothing to the eye
— nothing. Presently Pierre said : "Begin."

The other drew a card, then Pierre drew one,
then the other, then Pierre again ; and so on.
How slow the game was ! Neither hurried, but
both, kneeling, looked and looked at the card
long before drawing and turning it over. The
stake was weighty, and Pierre loved the game
more than he cared about the stake. Sherburne
cared nothing about the game, but all his
soul seemed set upon the hazard. There was
not a sound out of the night, nothing stirring
but the Spirit of the North. Twenty, twenty-
five cards were drawn, and then Pierre paused.

" In a minute all will be settled," he said.
" Will you go on, or will you pause ? "

But Sherburne had got the madness of chance
in his veins now, and he said : " Quick, quick,
go on ! "

Pierre drew, but the great card held back.
Sherburne drew, then Pierre again. There were
three left. Sherburne's face was as white as the
snow around him. His mouth was open, and a
little white cloud of frosted breath came out.
His hand hungered for the card, drew back, then
seized it. A moan broke from him. Then
Pierre, with a little weird laugh, reached out and
turned over — the ace of hearts.

132 An Adventurer of the North

They both stood up. Pierre put the cards in
his pocket.

" You have lost," he said.

Sherburne threw back his head with a reck-
less laugh. The laugh seemed to echo and echo
through the amphitheatre, and then from the
frozen seats, the hillocks of ice and snow, there
was a long, low sound, as of sorrow, and a voice
came after :

" Sleep — sleep ! Blessed be the just and the
keepers of vows"

Sherburne stood shaking as though he had
seen a host of spirits. His eyes on the great
seats of judgment, he said to Pierre :

" See ! see ! how they sit there ! grey and
cold and awful ! "

But Pierre shook his head,

"There is nothing," he said, "nothing,"
yet he knew that Sherburne was looking upon
the men of judgment of the Kimash Hills, the
sleepers. He looked round half fearfully, for
if here were those great children of the ages,
where was the keeper of the house, the Red
Patrol ?

Even as he thought, a figure in scarlet with a
noble face and a high pride of bearing stood
before them, not far away. Sherburne clutched
his arm.

The Red Patrol 133

Then the Red Patrol, the Scarlet Hunter,
spoke :

" Why have you sinned your sins and bro-
ken your vows within our house of judgment ?
Know ye not that in the new springtime of the
world ye shall be outcast, because ye have called
the sleepers to judgment before their time ?
But I am the hunter of the lost. Go you," he
said to Sherburne, pointing, " where a sick man
lies in a hut in the Shikam Valley In his soul
find thine own again." Then to Pierre : " For
thee, thou shall know the desert and the storm
and the lonely hills ; thou shalt neither seek nor
find. Go, and return no more."

The two men, Sherburne falteringly, stepped
down and moved to the open plain. They
turned at the great entrance and looked back.
Where they had stood there rested on his long
bow the Red Patrol. He raised it, and a flam-
ing arrow flew through the sky toward the
south. They followed its course, and when they
looked back a little afterward the great judg-
ment - house was empty and the whole north
was silent as the sleepers.

At dawn they came to the hut in the
Shikam Valley, and there they found a trapper
dying. He had sinned greatly, and he could
not die without some one to show him how,

134 An Adventurer of the North

to tell him what to say to the angel of the cross-
roads.

Sherburne, kneeling by him, felt his own
new soul moved by a holy fire, and, first praying
for himself, he said to the sick man : " For if
we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to for-
give us our sins, and to cleanse us from all un-
righteousness"

Praying for both, his heart grew strong, and
he heard the sick man say, ere he journeyed
forth to the cross-roads :

"You have shown me the way; I have
peace."

" Speak for me in the Presence," said Sher-
burne, softly.

The dying man could not answer, but that
moment, as he journeyed forth on the Far Trail,
he held Sherburne's hand.

The Going of the White Swan

"Why don't she come back, father ?"

The man shook his head, his hand fumbled
with the wolfskin robe covering the child, and
he made no reply.

" She 'd come if she knew I was hurted,
wouldn't she ?"

The father nodded, and then turned rest-
lessly toward the door, as though expecting
some one. The look was troubled, and the pipe
he held was not alight, though he made a pre-
tence of smoking.

" Suppose the wildcat had got me, she 'd be
sorry when she comes, would n't she ? "

There was no reply yet, save by gesture, the
language of primitive man ; but the big body
shivered a little, and the uncouth hand felt for
a place in the bed where the lad's knee made a
lump under the robe. He felt the little heap
tenderly, but the child winced.

"S-sh, but that hurts! This wolf-skin's
most too much on me, isn't it, father ?"

The man softly, yet awkwardly too, lifted the
I3S

1 36 An Adventurer of the North

robe, folded it back, and slowly uncovered the
knee. The leg was worn away almost to skin
and bone, but the knee itself was swollen with
inflammation. He bathed it with some water,
mixed with vinegar and herbs, then drew down
the deer-skin shirt at the child's shoulder, and
did the same with it. Both shoulder and kneo
bore the marks of teeth — where a huge wild-
cat had made havoc — and the body had long
red scratches.

Presently the man shook his head sorrow-
fully, and covered up the small disfigured frame
again, but this time with a tanned skin of the
caribou. The flames of the huge wood fire
dashed the walls and floor with a velvety red and
black, and the large iron kettle, bought of the
Company at Fort Sacrament, puffed out geysers
of steam.

The place was a low hut with parchment
windows and rough mud-mortar lumped between
the logs. Skins hung along two sides, with
bullet-holes and knife-holes showing : of the
great grey wolf, the red puma, the bronze hill-
lion, the beaver, the bear, and the sable; and
in one corner was a huge pile of them. Bare
of the usual comforts as the room was, it had a
sort of refinement also, joined to an inexpress-

The Going of the White Swan 137

ible loneliness ; you could scarce have told how
or why.

" Father," said the boy, his face pinched with
pain for a moment, " it hurts so, all over, every
once in a while."

His fingers caressed the leg just below the
knee.

" Father," he suddenly added, "what does it
mean when you hear a bird sing in the middle
of the night?"

The woodsman looked down anxiously into
the boy's face. " It has n't no meaning, Domi-
nique. There ain 't such a thing on the Labra-
dor Heights as a bird singin' in the night.
That 's only in warm countries where there 's
nightingales. So — Men surf"

The boy had a wise, dreamy, speculative
look. " Well, I guess it was a nightingale — it
didn't sing like any I ever heard."

The look of nervousness deepened in the
woodman's face. " What did it sing like, Dom-
inique ?"

" So it made you shiver. You wanted it to
go on, and yet you did n't want it. It was pretty,
but you felt as if something was going to snap
inside of you."

" When did you hear it, my son ?"

138 An Adventurer of the North

"Twice last night — and — and I guess it
was Sunday the other time. I do n't know, for
there has n't been no Sunday up here since
mother went away — has there ?"

" Mebbe not."

The veins were beating like live cords in the
man's throat and at his temples.

"'Twas just the same as Father Corraine
bein' here, when mother had Sunday, wasn't
it?"

The man made no reply ; but a gloom drew
down his forehead, and his lips doubled in as if
he endured physical pain. He got to his feet
and paced the floor. For weeks he had listened
to the same kind of talk from this wounded,
and, as he thought, dying son, and he was get-
ting less and less able to bear it. The boy at
nine years of age was, in manner of speech, the
merest child, but his thoughts were sometimes
large and wise. The only white child within a
compass of a thousand miles or so ; the lonely
life of the hills and plains, so austere in winter,
so melted to a sober joy in summer ; listening
to the talk of his elders at camp-fires and on the
hunting-trail, when, even as an infant almost,
he was swung in a blanket from a tree or was
packed in the torch-crane of a canoe ; and more
than all, the care of a good, loving — if passion-

The Going of the White Swan 1 39

ate — little mother : all these had made him far
wiser than his years. He had been hours upon
hours each day alone with the birds, and squir-
rels, and wild animals, and something of the
keen scent and instinct of the animal world had
entered into his body and brain, so that he felt
what he could not understand.

He saw that he had worried his father, and it
troubled him. He thought of something.

"Daddy," he said, "let me have it."

A smile struggled for life in the hunter's face,
as he turned to the wall and took down the skin
of a silver fox. He held it on his palm for a
moment, looking at it in an interested, satisfied
way, then he brought it over and put it into the
child's hands ; and the smile now shaped itself,
as he saw an eager pale face buried in the soft
fur.

" Good ! good 1 " he said involuntarily.
"Bon! bon!" said the boy's voice from the
fur, in the language of his mother, who added
a strain of Indian blood to her French an-
cestry.

The two sat there, the man half-kneeling on
the low bed, and stroking the fur very gently.
It could scarcely be thought that such pride
should be spent on a little pelt, by a mere
backwoodsman and his nine-year-old son. One

140 An Adventurer of the North

has seen a woman fingering a splendid neck-
lace, her eyes fascinated by the bunch of warm,
deep jewels — a light not of mere vanity, or hun-
ger, or avarice in her face — only the love of the
beautiful thing. But this was an animal's skin.
Did they feel the animal underneath it yet, giv-
ing it beauty, life, glory ?

The silver-fox skin is the prize of the north,
and this one was of the boy's own harvesting.
While his father was away he saw the fox creep-
ing by the hut. The joy of the hunter seized
him, and guided his eye over the "sights" of
his father's rifle as he rested the barrel on the
window-sill, and the animal was his ! Now his
finger ran into the hole made by the bullet, and
he gave a little laugh of modest triumph. Min-
utes passed as they studied, felt, and admired
the skin, the hunter proud of his son, the son
alive with a primitive passion, which inflicts
suffering to get the beautiful thing. Perhaps
the tenderness as well as the wild passion of the
animal gets into the hunter's blood, and tips his
fingers at times with an exquisite kindness — as
one has noted in a lion fondling her young,
or in tigers as they sport upon the sands of the
desert. This boy had seen his father shoot a
splendid moose, and, as it lay dying, drop down
and kiss it in the neck for sheer love of its hand-

The Going of the White Swan 141

someness. Death is no insult. It is the law of
the primitive world — war, and love in war.

They sat there for a long time, not speaking,
each busy in his own way : the boy full of imag-
inings, strange, half-heathen, half-angelic feel-
ings ; the man roaming in that savage, romantic,
superstitious atmosphere which belongs to the
north, and to the north alone. At last the boy
lay back on the pillow, his finger still in the
bullet-hole of the pelt. His eyes closed, and he
seemed about to fall asleep, but presently looked
up and whispered : " I have n't said my prayers,
have I ? "

The father shook his head in a sort of rude
confusion.

"I can pray out loud if I want to, can't I?"

" Of course, Dominique." The man shrank
a little.

" I forget a good many times, but I know
one all right, for I said it when the bird was
singing. It is n't one out of the book Father
Corraine sent mother by Pretty Pierre ; it 's one
she taught me out of her own head. P'r'aps I 'd
better say it."

" P'r'aps, if you want to." The voice was
husky.

The boy began :

" O bon Je"su, who died to save us from our

142 An Adventurer of the North

sins, and to lead us to Thy country, where there
is no cold, nor hunger, nor thirst, and where no
one is afraid, listen to Thy child. . . . When
the great winds and rains come down from the
hills, do not let the floods drown us, nor the
woods cover us, nor the snow-slide bury us, and
do not let the prairie-fires burn us. Keep wild
beasts from killing us in our sleep, and give us
good hearts that we may not kill them in
anger."

His finger twisted involuntarily into the bul-
let-hole in the pelt, and he paused a moment.

" Keep us from getting lost, O gracious Sa-
vior."

Again there was a pause, his eyes opened
wide, and he said :

*' Do you think mother 's lost, father ? "

A heavy broken breath came from the father,
and he replied haltingly : " Mebbe, mebbe so."

Dominique's eyes closed again. " I '11 make
Up some," he said slowly: "And if mother's
lost, bring her back again to us, for everything's
going wrong."

Again he paused, then went on with the prayer
as it had been taught him.

"Teach us to hear Thee whenever Thou call-
est, and to see Thee when Thou visitest us, and
let the blessed Mary and all the saints speak

The Going of the White Swan 143

often to Thee for us. O Christ, hear us. Lord
have mercy upon us. Christ, have mercy upon
us. Amen."

Making the sign of the cross, he lay back,
and said : " I '11 go to sleep now, I guess."

The man sat for a long time looking at the
pale, shining face, at the blue veins showing
painfully dark on the temples and forehead,
at the firm little white hand, which was as brown
as a butternut a few weeks before. The longer
he sat, the deeper did his misery sink into his
soul. His wife had gone he knew not where,
his child was wasting to death, and he had for
his sorrows no inner consolation. He had ever
had that touch of mystical imagination insep-
arable from the far north, yet he had none of
that religious belief which swallowed up natural
awe and turned it to the refining of life, and to
the advantage of a man's soul. Now it was
forced in upon him that his child was wiser than
himself; wiser and safer. His life had been
spent in the wastes, with rough deeds and rug-
ged habits, and a youth of hardship, danger,
and almost savage endurance had given him a
half-barbarian temperament, which could strike
an angry blow at one moment and fondle to
death at the next.

When he married sweet Lucette Barbond his

144 An Adventurer of the North

religion reached little farther than a belief in
the Scarlet Hunter of the Kimash Hills and
those voices that could be heard calling in the
night, till their time of sleep be past and they
should rise and reconquer the north.

Not even Father Corraine, whose ways were
like those of his Master, could ever bring him
to a more definite faith. His wife had at first
striven with him, mourning yet loving. Some-
times the savage in him had broken out over the
little creature, merely because barbaric tyranny
was in him — torture followed by the passionate
kiss. But how was she philosopher enough to
understand the cause !

When she fled from their hut one bitter day,
as he roared some wild words at her, it was be-
cause her nerves had all been shaken from
threatened death by wild beasts (of this he did
not know), and his violence drove her mad.
She had ran out of the house, and on, and on,
and on — and she had never come back. That
was weeks ago, and there had been no word nor
sign of her since. The man was now busy with
it all, in a slow, cumbrous way. A nature more
to be touched by things seen than by things
told, his mind was being awakened in a massive
kind of fashion. He was viewing this crisis of
his life as one sees a human face in the wide

The Going of the White Swan 145

searching light of a great fire. He was restless,
but he held himself still by a strong effort, not
wishing to disturb the sleeper. His eyes seemed
to retreat farther and farther back under his
shaggy brows.

The great logs in the chimney burned bril-
liantly, and a brass crucifix over the child's head
now and again reflected soft little flashes of
light. This caught the hunter's eye. Presently
there grew up in him a vague kind of hope that,
somehow, this symbol would bring him luck —
that was the way he put it to himself. He had
felt this — and something more — when Domi-
nique prayed. Somehow, Dominique's prayer
was the only one he had ever heard that had
gone home to him, had opened up the big
sluices of his nature, and let the light of God
flood in. No, there was another : the one Lu-
cette made on the day that they were married,
when a wonderful timid reverence played
through his hungry love for her.

Hours passed. All at once, without any other
motion or gesture, the boy's eyes opened wide
with a strange, intense look.

" Father," he said slowly, and in a kind of
dream, "when you hear a sweet horn blow at
night, is it the Scarlet Hunter calling ?"

" P'r'aps. Why, Dominique?" He made

146 An Adventurer of the North

up his mind to humor the boy, though it gave
him strange aching forebodings. He had seen
grown men and women with these fancies — and
they had died.

"I heard one blowing just now, and the
sounds seemed to wave over my head. Perhaps
he 's calling some one that's lost."

" Mebbe."

"And I heard a voice singing — it was n't a
bird to-night."

" There was no voice, Dominique."

"Yes, yes." There was something fine in
the grave, courteous certainty of the lad. "I waked,
and you were sitting there thinking, and I shut
my eyes again, and I heard the voice. I remem-
ber the tune and the words."

"What were the words ?" In spite of him-
self the hunter felt awed.

" I 've heard mother sing them, or something
most like them :

" Why does the fire no longer burn ?

(I am so lonely.)
Why does the tent -door swing outward ?

(I have no home.)
Oh, let me breathe hard in your face !

(I am so lonely.)
Oh, why do you shut your eyes to me ?

(I have no home.)"

The Going of the White Swan 147

The boy paused.

" Was that all, Dominique ?"

" No, not all."

" Let us make friends with the stars ;

(I am so lonely.)
Give me your hand, I will hold it.

(I have no home.)
Let us go hunting together.

(I am so lonely.)
We will sleep at God's camp to-night.

(I have no home.)"

Dominique did not sing, but recited the words
with a sort of chanting inflection.

" What does it mean when you hear a voice
like that, father?"

"I don't know. Who told — your mother —
the song ? "

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose she just
made them up — she and God. . . . There !
There it is again ? Don't you hear it — don't
you hear it, daddy ? "

"No, Dominique, it's only the kettle sing-
ing."

"A kettle isn't a voice. Daddy — " He
paused a little, then went on, hesitatingly: "I
saw a white swan fly through the door over your
shoulder when you came in to-night."

148 An Adventurer of the North

"No, no, Dominique, it was a flurry of snow
blowing over my shoulder."

" But it looked at me with two shining eyes."

"That was two stars shining through the
door, my son."

"How could there be snow flying and stars
shining too, father ? "

"It was just drift-snow on a light wind, but
the stars were shining above, Dominique."

The man's voice was anxious and unconvinc-
ing, his eyes had a hungry, hunted look. The
legend of the White Swan had to do with the
passing of a human soul. The swan had come
in — would it go out alone ? He touched the
boy's hand — it was hot with fever ; he felt the
pulse — it ran high ; he watched the face — it had
a glowing light. Something stirred with him,
and passed like a wave to the farthest course of
his being. Through his misery he had touched
the garment of the Master of Souls. As though
a voice said to him there, "Someone hath
touched me," he got to his feet, and, with a sud-
den blind humility, lit two candles, placed them
on a shelf in a corner before a porcelain figure
of the Virgin, as he had seen his wife do. Then
he picked a small handful of fresh spruce twigs
from a branch over the chimney, and laid them
beside the candles. After a short pause he came

The Going of the White Swan 149

slowly to the head of the boy's bed. Very sol-
emnly he touched the foot of the Christ on the
cross with the tips of his fingers, and brought
them to his lips with an indescribable reverence.
After a moment, standing with eyes fixed on the
face of the crucified figure, he said, in a shaking
voice :

" Pardon, ban Jesu ! Sauves mon enfant ! Ne
me laissez pas seul ! " *

The boy looked up with eyes again grown
unnaturally heavy, and said :

" Amen ! . . . Bon Jesu / . . . Encore !
Encore, mon pere ! "

The boy slept. The father stood still by the
bed for a time, but at last slowly turned and went
toward the fire.

Outside, two figures were approaching the
hut — a man and a woman ; yet at first glance the
man might easily have been taken for a woman,
because of the long black robe which he wore,
and because his hair fell loose on his shoulders
and his face was clean-shaven.

" Have patience, my daughter," said the
man. "Do not enter till I call you. But stand
close to the door, if you will, and hear all."

So saying he raised his hand as in a kind of

benediction, passed to the door, and after tap-

* " Pardon, good Jesus. Save my child. Leave me not alone."

1 50 An Adventurer of the North

ping very softly, opened it, entered, and closed
it behind him — not so quickly, however, but
that the woman caught a glimpse of the father
and the boy. In her eyes there was the divine
look of motherhood.

"Peace be to this house!" said the man
gently, as he stepped forward from the door.

The father, startled, turned shrinkingly on
him, as if he had seen a spirit.

"M'sieu' le cur£ !" he said in French, with
an accent much poorer than that of the priest,
or even of his own son. He had learned French
from his wife ; he himself was English.

The priest's quick eye had taken in the
lighted candles at the little shrine, even as he
saw the painfully changed aspect of the man.

"The wife and child, Bagot?" he asked,
looking round. "Ah, the boy !" he added, and
going toward the bed, continued, presently, in
a low voice : " Dominique is ill ? "

Bagot nodded, and then answered : "A wild-
cat and then fever, Father Corraine."

The priest felt the boy's pulse softly, then
with a close personal look he spoke hardly above
his breath, yet distinctly too :

"Your wife, Bagot?"

"She is not here, m'sieu'." The voice was
low and gloomy.

The Going of the White Swan 151

"Where is she, Bagot?"

"I do not know, m'sieu'."

"When did you see her last ?"

" Four weeks ago, m'sieu'."

"That was September, this is October —
winter. On the ranches they let their cattle
loose upon the plains in winter, knowing not
where they go, yet looking for them to return
in the spring. But a woman — a woman and a
wife — is different. . . . Bagot, you have been a
rough, hard man, and you have been a stranger
to your God, but I thought you loved your wife
and child!"

The hunter's hands clenched, and a wicked
light flashed up into his eyes; but the calm, be-
nignant gaze of the other cooled the tempest in
his veins. The priest sat down on the couch
where the child lay, and took the fevered hand
in his very softly.

"Stay where you are, Bagot, just there where
you are, and tell me what your trouble is, and
why your wife is not here. . . . Say all honestly
— by the name of the Christ ! " he added, lifting
up a large iron crucifix that hung on his breast

Bagot sat down on a bench near the fireplace
the light playing on his bronzed, powerful face,
his eyes shining beneath his heavy brows like
two coals. After a moment he began :

152 An Adventurer of the North

"I don't know how it started. I 'd lost a lot
of pelts — stolen they were, down on the Child o'
Sin River. Well, she was hasty and nervous,
like as not — she always was brisker and more
sudden than I am. I — I laid my powder-horn
and whisky-flask — up there ! "

He pointed to the little shrine of the Virgin,
where now his candles were burning. The
priest's grave eyes did not change expression at
all, but looked out wisely, as though he under-
stood everything before it was told.

Bagot continued : " I did n't notice it, but
she had put some flowers there. She said some-
thing with an edge, her face all snapping angry,
threw the things down, and called me a heathen
and a wicked heretic — and I do n't say now but
she 'd a right to do it. But I let out then, for
them stolen pelts were rasping me on the raw.
I said something pretty rough, and made as if I
was goin' to break her in two — just fetched up
my hands, and went like this ! — With a sin-
gular simplicity he made a wild gesture with his
hands, and an animal-like snarl came from his
throat. Then he looked at the priest with the
honest intensity of a boy.

" Yes, that was what you did — what was it you
said which was 'pretty rough ' ?"

The Going of the White Swan 153

There was a slight hesitation, then came the
reply :

" I said there was enough powder spilt on
the floor to kill all the priests in heaven."

A fire suddenly shot up into Father Corraine's
face, and his lips tightened for an instant, but
presently he was as before, and he said :

" How that will face you one day, Bagot !
Go on. What else ? "

Sweat began to break out on Bagot's face,
and he spoke as though he were carrying a heavy
weight on his shoulders, low and brokenly.

"Then I said, 'And if virgins has it so fine,
why did n't you stay one ? "

" Blasphemer ! " said the priest in a stern,
reproachful voice, his face turning a little pale,
and he brought the crucifix to his lips. "To
the mother of your child — shame! What
more?"

" She threw up her hands to her ears with a
wild cry, ran out of the house, down the hills,
and away. I went to the door and watched her
as long as I could see her, and waited for her
to come back — but she never did. I 've hunted
and hunted, but I can't find her." Then, with
a sudden thought, " Do you know anything of
her, m'sieu' ? "

154 An Adventurer of the North

The priest appeared not to hear the question.
Turning for a moment toward the boy who now
was in a deep sleep, he looked at him intently.
Presently he spoke.

" Ever since I married you and Lucette Bar-
bond you have stood in the way of her duty,
Bagot. How well I remember that first day
when you knelt before me ! Was ever so sweet
and good a girl — with her golden eyes and the
look of summer in her face, and her heart all
pure ! Nothing had spoiled her — you cannot
spoil such women — God is in their hearts. But
you, what have you cared ? One day you would
fondle her, and the next you were a savage —
and she, so gentle, so gentle all the time !
Then, for her religion and the faith of her child
— she has fought for it, prayed for it, suffered
for it. You thought you had no need, for you
had so much happiness, which you did not de-
serve— that was it. But she ! with all a woman
suffers, how can she bear life — and man — with-
out God ? No, it is not possible. And you
thought you and your few superstitions were
enough for her. — Ah, poor fool ! She should
worship you ! So selfish, so small, for a man
who knows in his heart how great God is. — You
did not love her."

The Going of the White Swan 155

" By the Heaven above, yes ! " said Bagot,
half starting to his feet.

"Ah, 'by the Heaven above,' no ! nor the
child. For true love is unselfish and patient,
and where it is the stronger, it cares for the
weaker ; but it was your wife who was unselfish,
patient, and cared for you. Every time she said
an ave she thought of you, and her every thanks
to the good God had you therein. They know
you well in heaven, Bagot — through your wife.
Did you ever pray — ever since I married you to
her?"

"Yes."

"When?"

" An hour or so ago."

Once again the priest's eyes glanced towards
the lighted candles.

Presently he said : " You asked me if I had
heard anything of your wife. Listen, and be
patient while you listen. . . . Three weeks ago
I was camping on the Sundust Plains, over
against the Young Sky River. In the morning,
as I was lighting a fire outside my tent, my
young Cree Indian with me, I saw coming over
the crest of a landwave, from the very lips of
the sunrise, as it were, a band of Indians. I
could not quite make them out. I hoisted my

1 56 An Adventurer of the North

little flag on the tent, and they hurried on to
me. I did not know the tribe — they had come
from near Hudson's Bay. They spoke Chinook,
and I could understand them. Well, as they
came near, I saw that they had a woman with
them."

Bagot leaned forward, his body strained,
every muscle tense. " A woman ! " he said, as
if breathing gave him sorrow — " my wife ! "

" Your wife."

"Quick! Quick! Go on — oh, go on,
m'sieu' — good father."

" She fell at my feet, begging me to save her.
... I waved her off."

The sweat dropped from Bagot's forehead,
a low growl broke from him, and he made such
a motion as a lion might make at its prey.

"You wouldn't — wouldn't save her — you
coward !" He ground the words out.

The priest raised his palm against the other's
violence. " Hush ! . . . She drew away, saying
that God and man had deserted her. . . . We
had breakfast, the chief and I. Afterwards,
when the chief had eaten much and was in good
humor, I asked him where he had got the wo-
man. He said that he had found her on the
plains — she had lost her way. I told him then
that I wanted to buy her. He said to me, ' What

The Going of the White Swan 157

does a priest want of a woman ? ' I said that I
wished to give her back to her husband. He
said that he had found her, and she was his, and
that he would marry her when they reached the
great camp of the tribe. I was patient. It
would not do to make him angry. I wrote
down on a piece of bark the things that I would
give him for her : an order on the Company at
Fort o' Sin for shot, blankets and beads. He
said no."

The priest paused. Bagot's face was all swim-
ming with sweat, his body was rigid, but the
veins of his neck knotted and twisted.

"For the love of God go on!" he said
hoarsely.

"Yes, 'for the love of God.' I have no
money, I am poor, but the Company will always
honor my orders, for I pay sometimes by the
help of Christ. Bien, I added some things to
the list : a saddle, a rifle, and some flannel. But
no, he would not. Once more I put many things
down. It was a big bill — it would keep me
poor for five years. — To save your wife, John
Bagot, you who drove her from your door,
blaspheming and railing at such as I. ... I
offered the things, and told him that was all
that I could give. After a little he shook his
head, and said that he must have the woman for

158 An Adventurer of the North

his wife. I did not know what to add. I said
— ' She is white, and the white people will never
rest till they have killed you all, if you do this
thing. The Company will track you down.'
Then he said, ' The whites must catch me and
fight me before they kill me.' . . . What was
there to do ? "

Bagot came near to the priest, bending over
him savagely :

"You let her stay with them — you, with
hands like a man !"

" Hush," was the calm, reproving answer.
" I was one man, they were twenty."

" Where was your God to help you, then ? "

" Her God and mine was with me."

Bagot's eyes blazed. " Why did n't you offer
rum — rum ? They 'd have done it for that —
one — five — ten kegs of rum !"

He swayed to and fro in his excitement, yet
their voices hardly rose above a hoarse
whisper all the time.

•' You forget," answered the priest, " that it
is against the law, and that as a priest of my
order I am vowed to give no rum to an In-
dian."

" A vow ! A vow ! Son of God ! what is a
vow beside a woman — my wife ?"

His misery and his rage were pitiful to see.

The Going of the White Swan 1 59

" Perjure my soul ! Offer rum ! Break my
vow in the face of the enemies of God's Church !
What have you done for me that I should do
this for you, John Bagot ?"

" Coward ! " was the man's despairing cry,
with a sudden threatening movement. "Christ
himself would have broke a vow to save her."

The grave, kind eyes of the priest met the
other's fierce gaze, and quieted the wild storm
that was about to break.

" Who am I that I should teach my Master ?"
he said, solemnly. " What would you give
Christ, Bagot, if He had saved her to you ?"

The man shook with grief, and tears rushed
from his eyes, so suddenly and fully had a new
emotion passed through him.

"Give — give!" he cried ; "I would give
twenty years of my life !"

The figure of the priest stretched up with a
gentle grandeur. Holding out the iron crucifix,
he said : " On your knees and swear it ! John
Bagot."

There was something inspiring, commanding,
in the voice and manner, and Bagot, with a new
hope rushing through his veins, knelt and re-
peated his words.

The priest turned to the door, and called,
" Madame Lucette ! "

160 An Adventurer of the North

The boy, hearing, waked, and sat up in bed
suddenly.

" Mother ! mother ! " he cried, as the door
flew open.

The mother came to her husband's arms,
laughing and weeping, and an instant afterwards
was pouring out her love and anxiety over her
child.

Father Corraine now faced the man, and with
a soft exaltation of voice and manner said:

" John Bagot, in the name of Christ, I de-
mand twenty years of your life— of love and
obedience of God. I broke my vow; I per-
jured my soul; I bought your wife with ten kegs
of rum !"

The tall hunter dropped again to his knees,
and caught the priest's hand to kiss it.

"No, no — this!" the priest said, and laid
his iron crucifix against the other's lips.

Dominique's voice came clearly through the
room:

"Mother, I saw the white swan fly away
through the door when you came in."

"My dear, my dear," she said, "there was no
white swan." But she clasped the boy to her
breast protectingly, and whispered an ave.

"Peace be to this house," said the voice of
the priest.

The Going of the White Swan 161

And there was peace : for the child lived,
and the man has loved, and has kept his vow,
even unto this day.

For the visions of the boy, who can know the
divers ways in which God speaks to the children
of men !

At Bamber's Boom
I

His trouble came upon him when he was old.
To the hour of its coming he had been of
shrewd and humorous disposition. He had
married late in life, and his wife had died, leav-
ing him one child — a girl. She grew to woman-
hood, bringing him daily joy. She was beloved
in the settlement ; and there was no one at
Bamber's Boom, in the valley of the Madawaska,
but was startled and sorry when it turned out
that Dugard, the river-boss, was married. He
floated away down the river, with his rafts and
drives of logs, leaving the girl sick and shamed.
They knew she was sick at heart, because she
grew pale and silent; they did not know for
some months how shamed she was. Then it
was that Mrs. Lauder, the sister of the Roman
Catholic missionary, Father Halen, being a
woman of notable character and kindness, visited
her and begged her to tell all.

Though the girl — Nora — was a Protestant,
Mrs. Lauder did so : but it brought sore grief to
162

At Bamber's Boom 163

her. At first she could hardly bear to look at
the girl's face, it was so hopeless, so numb to
the world : it had the indifference of despair.
Rumor now became hateful fact. When the
old man was told, he gave one loud cry, then
sat down, his hands pressed hard between his
knees, his body trembling, his eyes staring be-
fore him.

It was Father Halen who told him. He did
it as man to man, and not as a priest, having
traveled fifty miles for the purpose. "George
Magor," said he, "it's bad, I know, but bear it —
with the help of God. And be kind to the girl."

The old man answered nothing. "My
friend," the priest continued, "I hope you'll
forgive me for telling you. I thought 'twould
be better from me, than to have it thrown at you
in the settlement. We've been friends one way
and another, and my heart aches for you, and
my prayers go with you."

The old man raised his sunken eyes, all their
keen humor gone, and spoke as though each
word were dug from his heart. "Say no more,
Father Halen." Then he reached out, caught
the priest's hand in his gnarled fingers, and
wrung it.

The father never spoke a harsh word to the
girl. Otherwise he seemed to harden into stone.

164 An Adventurer of the North

When the Protestant missionary came he would
not see him. The child was born before the
river-drivers came along again the next year with
their rafts and logs. There was a feeling abroad
that it would be ill for Dugard if he chanced to
camp at Bamber's Boom. The look of the old
man's face was ominous, and he was known to
have an iron will.

Dugard was a handsome man, half French,
half Scotch, swarthy and admirably made. He
was proud of his strength, and showily fearless
in danger. For there were dangerous hours to
the river life; when, for instance, a mass of logs
became jammed at a rapids, and must be
loosened ; or a crib struck into the wrong chan-
nel, or, failing to enter a slide straight, came at
a nasty angle to it, its timbers wrenched and
tore apart, and its crew, with their great oars,
were plumped into the busy current. He had
been known to stand singly in some perilous
spot when one log, the key to the jam, must be
shifted to set free the great tumbled pile. He
did everything with a dash. The handspike was
waved and thrust into the best leverage, the long
robust cry, "O-hee-hee-hoi !" rolled over the
waters, there was a devil's jumble of logs, and
he played a desperate game with them, tossing
here, leaping there, balancing elsewhere, till,

At Bamber's Boom 165

reaching the smooth rush of logs in the current,
he ran across them to the shore as they spun
beneath his feet.

His gang of river-drivers, with their big drives
of logs, came sweeping down one beautiful day
of early summer, red-shirted, shouting, good-
tempered. It was about this time that Pierre
came to know Magor.

It was the old man's duty to keep the booms
of several great lumbering companies, and to
watch the logs when the river-drivers were en-
gaged elsewhere. Occasionally he took a place
with the men, helping to make cribs and rafts.
Dugard worked for one lumber company, Magor
for others. Many in the settlement showed
Dugard how much he was despised. Some
warned him that Magor had said he would break
him into pieces ; it seemed possible that Dugard
might have a bad hour with the people of Bam-
ber's Boom. Dugard, though he swelled and
strutted, showed by a furtive eye and a sin-
ister watchfulness that he felt himself in an
atmosphere of danger. But he spoke of his
wickedness lightly as, " A slip — a little accident,
mon ami."

Pierre said to him one day : " J3ien, Dugard,
you are a bold man to come here again. Or is
it that you think old men are cowards ? "

1 66 An Adventurer of the North

Dugard, blustering, laid his hand suddenly
upon his case-knife.

Pierre laughed softly, contemptuously, came
over, and throwing out his perfectly formed but
not robust chest in the fashion of Dugard, added:
" Ho, ho, m'sieu' the butcher, take your time
at that. There is too much blood in your car-
cass. You have quarrels plenty on your hands
without this. Come, don't be a fool and a
scoundrel too ! "

Dugard grinned uneasily, and tried to turn
the thing off as a joke, and Pierre, who laughed
still a little more, said: "It would be amusing
to see old Magor and Dugard fight. It would
be — so equal." There was a keen edge to
Pierre's tones, but Dugard dared not resent it.

One day Magor and Dugard must meet.
The square-timber of the two companies had got
tangled at a certain point, and gangs from both
must set them loose. They were camped some
distance from each other. There was rivalry
between them, and it was hinted that if any
trouble came from the meeting of Magor and
Dugard the gangs would pay off old scores
with each other. Pierre wished to prevent this.
It seemed to him that the two men should
stand alone in the affair. He said as much
here and there to members of both camps, for

At Bamber's Boom 167

he was free of both : a tribute to his genius at
poker.

The girl, Nora, was apprehensive — for her
father; she hated the other man now. Pierre
was courteous to her, scrupulous in word and
look, and fond of her child. He had always
shown a gentleness to children, which seemed
little compatible with his character ; but for this
young outlaw in the world he had something
more. He even labored carefully to turn the
girl's father in its favor ; but as yet to little pur-
pose. He was thoughtful of the girl too. He
only went to the house when he knew her father
was present, or when she was away. Once while
he was there Father Halen and his sister, Mrs.
Lauder, came. They found Pierre with the child,
rocking the cradle, and humming as he did so
an old song of the coureurs de bois :

"Out of the hills comes a little white deer —

Poor little vaurien, O, ci, cil
Come to my home, to my home down here,
Sister and brother and child o' me —
Poor little, poor little vaurien I

Pierre was alone, save for the old woman who
had cared for the home since Nora's trouble
came. The priest was anxious lest any harm
should come from Dugard's presence at Bam-
ber's Boom. He knew Pierre's doubtful repu-

1 68 An Adventurer of the North

tation, but still he knew he could speak freely
and would be answered honestly.

"What will happen ?" he abruptly asked.

" What neither you nor I should try to pre-
vent, m'sieu'," was Pierre's reply.

"Magor will do the man injury ? "

" What would you have ? Put the matter on
your own hearthstone, eh ? ... Pardon, if I say
these things bluntly." Pierre still lightly rocked
the cradle with one foot.

"But vengeance is in God's hands."

"M'sieu'," said the half-breed, "vengeance
also is man's, else why did we ten men from
Fort Cypress track down the Indians who mur-
dered your brother, the good priest, and kill
them one by one ? "

Father Halen caught his sister as she swayed,
and helped her to a chair, then turned a sad face
on Pierre. " Were you — were you one of that
ten ? " he asked, overcome ; and he held out his
hand.

The two rivers-driving camps joined at Mud
Cat Point, where was the crush of great timber.
The two men did not at first come face to face,
but it was noticed by Pierre, who smoked on the
bank while the others worked, that the old man
watched his enemy closely. The work of undo-
ing the great twist of logs was exciting, and

At Bamber's Boom 169

they fell on each other with a great sound as they
were pried off, and went sliding, grinding into
the water. At one spot they were piled together,
massive and high. These were left to the last.
It was here that the two met. Old Magor's
face was quiet, if a little haggard, and his eyes
looked out from under his shaggy brows pierc-
ingly. Dugard's manner was swaggering, and
he swore horribly at his gang. Presently he
stood at a point alone, working at an obstinate
log. He was at the foot of an incline of timber,
and he was not aware that Magor had suddenly
appeared at the top of that incline. He heard
his name called out sharply. Swinging round,
he saw Magor thrusting a handspike under a
huge timber hanging at the top of the incline.
He was standing in a hollow, a kind of trench.
He was shaken with fear, for he saw the old
man's design. He gave a cry and made as if to
jump out of the way, but with a laugh Magor
threw his whole weight on the handspike, the
great timber slid swiftly down and crushed
Dugard from his thighs to his feet, breaking his
legs terribly. The old man called down at him:
"A slip — a little accident, mon ami /" Then,
shouldering his handspike, he made his way
through the silent gangs to the shore, and so on
homewards.

170 An Adventurer of the North

Magor had done what he wished. Dugard
would be a cripple for life ; his beauty was all
spoiled and broken : there was much to do to
save his life.

II

Nora also about this time took to her bed
with fever. Again and again Pierre rode thirty
miles and back to get ice for her head. All
were kind to her now. The vengeance up-
on Dugard seemed to have wiped out much of
her shame in the eyes of Bamber's Boom. Such
is the way of the world. He that has the last
blow is in the eye of advantage. When Nora
began to recover the child fell ill also. In the
sickness of the child the old man had a great
temptation — far greater than that concern-
ing Dugard. As the mother grew better the
child became much worse. One night the doc-
tor came, driving over from another settlement,
and said that if the child got sleep till morning
it would probably live, for the crisis had come.
He left an opiate to procure the sleep, the same
that had been given to the mother. If it did
not sleep it would die. Pierre was present at
this time.

All through the child's illness the old man's
mind had been tossed to and fro. If the child

At Bamber's Boom 171

died, the living stigma would be gone; there
would be no reminder of his daughter's shame
in the eyes of the world. They could go away
from Bamber's Boom, and begin life again some-
where. But, then, there was the child itself
which had crept into his heart — he knew not
how — and would not be driven out. He had
never, till it was taken ill, even touched it, nor
spoken to it. To destroy its life! Well, would
it not be better for the child to go out of all
possible shame, into peace, the peace of the grave?

This night he sat down beside the cradle,
holding the bottle of medicine and a spoon in
his hand. The hot, painful face of the child
fascinated him. He looked from it to the bot-
tle, and back, and then again to the bottle. He
started, and the sweat stood out on his fore-
head. For though the doctor had told him
in words the proper dose, he had by mistake
written on the label the same dose as for the
mother! Here was the responsibility shifted in
any case. More than once the old man un-
corked the bottle, and once he dropped out the
opiate in the spoon steadily; but the child
opened its suffering eyes at him, its little
wasted hand wandered over the coverlet, and
he could not do it just then.

But again the passion for its destruction came

1 72 An Adventurer of the North

on him, because he heard his daughter moaning
in the other room. He said to himself that she
would be happier when it was gone. But as he
stooped over the cradle, no longer hesitating,
the door softly opened, and Pierre entered.
The old man shuddered, and drew back from
the cradle. Pierre saw the look of guilt in the
old man's face, and his instinct told him what
was happening. He took the bottle from the
trembling hand, and looked at the label.

"What is the right dose?" he asked, seeing
that a mistake had been made by the doctor.

In a hoarse whisper Magor told him. " It
may be too late," Pierre added. He knelt
down, with light fingers opened the child's
mouth, and poured the medicine in slowly.
The old man stood for a time rigid, looking at
them both. Then he came round to the other
side of the cradle, and seated himself beside it,
his eyes fixed on the child's face. For a long
time they sat there. At last the old man said:
"Will he die, Pierre?"

"I am afraid," answered Pierre painfully.
" But we shall see." Then early teaching came
to him — never to be entirely obliterated — and
he added: " Has the child been baptized?"

The old man shook his head. "Will you
do it?" asked Pierre hesitatingly.

At Bamber's Boom 173

" I can 't — I can 't," was the reply.

Pierre smiled a little ironically, as if to him-
self, got some water in a cup, came over, and
said:

" Remember, I 'm a Papist ! "

A motion of the hand answered him.

He dipped his fingers in the water, and
dropped it ever so lightly on the child's fore-
head.

"George Magor" — it was the old man's
name — " I baptize thee in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.
Amen." Then he drew the sign of the cross
on the infant's forehead.

Sitting down, he watched beside the child.
After a little he heard a long choking sigh.
Looking up he saw tears slowly dropping from
Magor's eyes.

And to this day the child and the mother of
the child are dear to the old man's heart.

The Bridge House

It stood on a wide wall between two small
bridges. These were approaches to the big cov-
ered bridge spanning the main channel of the
Madawaska River and when swelled by the
spring thaws and rains, the two flanking chan-
nels divided at the foundations of the house,
and rustled away through the narrow paths of
the small bridges to the rapids. You could
stand at any window in the House and watch
the ugly, rushing current, gorged with logs,
come battering at the wall, jostle between the
piers, and race on to the rocks and the dam and
the slide beyond. You stepped from the front
door upon the wall, which was a road between
the bridges, and from the back door into the
river itself.

The House had once been a tavern. It looked
a wayfarer, like its patrons the river-drivers, with
whom it was most popular. You felt that it
had no part in the career of the village on either
side, but was like a rock in a channel, at which
a swimmer caught or a vagrant fish loitered.
174

The Bridge House 175

Pierre knew the place, when, of a night in
the springtime or early summer, throngs of
river-drivers and their bosses sauntered at its
doors, or hung over the railing of the wall, as
they talked and smoked.

The glory of the Bridge House suddenly de-
clined. That was because Finley, the owner, a
rich man, came to hate the place — his brother's
blood stained the bar-room floor. He would
have destroyed the house but that John Rupert,
the beggared gentleman, came to him, and
wished to rent it for a dwelling.

Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably
poor for many years, but he had a breeding and
a manner superior to anyone at Bamber's Boom.
He was too old for a labourer, he had no art or
craftsmanship ; his little money was gone in
foolish speculations, and he was dependent on
his granddaughter's slight earnings from music-
teaching and needlework. But he rented an
acre of ground from Finley, and grew vegeta-
bles ; he gathered driftwood from the river for
his winter fire, and made up the accounts of the
storekeeper occasionally ; yet it was merely
keeping off starvation. He was not popular.
He had no tongue for the meaningless village
talk. People held him in a kind of awe, and
yet they felt a mean satisfaction when they saw

1 76 An Adventurer of the North

him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on the
shore to be dragged away — the last resort of
the poor, for which they blush.

When Mr. Rupert asked for the House Fin-
ley knew the chances were he would not get the
rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old
man, he gave it to him at a low rate. He closed
up the bar-room, however, and it was never
opened afterwards.

So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his
granddaughter, came to live there. Judith was
a blithe, lissome creature, who had never known
comfort or riches; they were taken from her
grandfather before she was born, and her father
and mother both died when she was yet a little
child. But she had been taught by her grand-
mother, when she lived, and by her grandfather,
and she had felt the graces of refined life.
Withal, she had a singular sympathy for the
rude, strong life of the river. She was glad
when they came to live at the Bridge House ;
and shamed too ; glad because they could live
apart from the other villagers ; shamed because
it exposed her to the curiosity of those who
visited the House, thinking it was yet a tavern.
But that was only for a time.

One night Jules Brydon, the young river-
boss, camped with his men at Bamber's Boom.

The Bridge House 177

He was of parents Scotch and French, and the
amalgamation of races in him was a striking
product. He was cool and indomitable, yet
hearty and joyous. It was exciting to watch
him at the head of his men, breaking up a jam
of logs, and it was a delight to hear him of an
evening as he sang :

"Have you heard the cry of the Long Lachine,
When happy is the sun in the morning ?
The rapids long and the banks of green,
As we ride away in the morning,

On the froth of the Long Lachine ? "

One day, soon after they came, the dams and
booms were opened above, and forests of logs
came riding down to Bamber's Boom. The cur-
rent was strong, and the logs came on swiftly.
As Brydon's gang worked they saw a man out
upon a small raft of driftwood, which had been
suddenly caught in the drive of logs, and was
carried out towards the middle channel. The
river-drivers laughed, for they failed to see that
the man was old, and that he could not run
across the rolling logs to the shore. The old
man, evidently hopeless, laid down his pike-
pole, folded his hands and drifted with the
logs. The river-drivers stopped laughing. They
began to understand.

Brydon saw a woman standing at a window

178 An Adventurer of the North

of the House waving her arms, and there floated
up the river the words, " Father ! father ! " He
caught up a pike-pole and ran over that spin-
ning floor of logs to the raft. The old man's
face was white, but there was no fear in his
eyes.

" I cannot run the logs," he said at once ; "I
never did ; I am too old, and I slip. It's no
use. It is my granddaughter at that window.
Tell her that I'll think of her to the last.
Good-bye!"

Brydon was eyeing the logs. The old man's
voice was husky; he could not cry out, but he
waved his hand to the girl.

"Oh, save him!" came from her faintly.

Brydon's eyes were now on the covered
bridge. Their raft was in the channel, coming
straight between two piers. He measured his
chances. He knew if he slipped, doing what he
intended, that both might be drowned, and cer-
tainly Mr. Rupert; for the logs were close, and
to drop among them was a bad business. If
they once closed over there was an end of every-
thing.

" Keep quite still," he said, " and when I
throw you, catch."

He took the slight figure in his arms, sprang
out upon the slippery logs, and ran. A cheer

The Bridge House 179

went up from the men on the shore, and the
people who were gathering on the bridges, too
late to be of service. Besides, the bridge was
closed, and there was only a small opening at
the piers. For one of these piers Brydon was
making. He ran hard. Once he slipped and
nearly fell, but recovered. Then a floating tree
suddenly lunged up and struck him, so that he
dropped upon a knee; but again he was up, and
strained for the pier. He was within a few feet
of it as they came to the bridge. The people
gave a cry of fear, for they saw that there was no
chance of both making it; because, too, at the
critical moment a space of clear water showed
near the pier. But Brydon raised John Rupert
up, balanced himself, and tossed him at the
pier, where two river-drivers stood stretching
out their arms. An instant afterwards the old
man was with his granddaughter. But Brydon
slipped and fell; the roots of a tree bore him
down, and he was gone beneath the logs !

There was a cry of horror from the watchers,
then all was still. But below the bridge they
saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and then
another arm crowding them apart. Now a head
and shoulders appeared. Luckily the piece of
timber which Brydon grasped was square, and
did not roll. In a moment he was standing on

1 80 An Adventurer of the North

it. There was a wild shout of encouragement.
He turned his battered, blood-stained face to
the bridge for an instant, and, with a wave of
the hand and a sharp look towards the rapids
below, once more sprang out. It was a brave
sight, for the logs were in a narrower channel
and more riotous. He rubbed the blood out of
his eyes that he might see his way. The rolling
forest gave him no quarter, but he came on,
rocking with weakness, to within a few rods of
shore. Then a half-dozen of his men ran out
on the logs — they were packed closely here —
caught him up and brought him to dry ground.
They took him to the Bridge House. He
was hurt — more than he or they thought. The
old man and the girl met them at the door.
Judith gave a little cry when she saw the blood
and Brydon's bruised face. He lifted his head
as though her eyes had drawn his, and, their
looks meeting, he took his hat off. Her face
flushed; she dropped her eyes. Her grandfather
seized Brydon's big hand and said some trem-
bling words of thanks. The girl stepped inside,
made a bed for him upon the sofa, and got him
something to drink. She was very cool; she im-
mediately asked Pierre to go for the young doc-
tor who had lately come to the place, and made
ready warm water with which she wiped Brydon's

The Bridge House 181

blood-stained face and hands, and then gave
him some brandy.

His comrades standing round watched her
admiringly, she was so deft and delicate. Bry-
don, as if to be nursed and cared for was not
manly, felt ashamed, and came up quickly to a
sitting posture, saying, " Pshaw ! I'm all right ! "
But he turned sick immediately, and Judith's
arms caught his head and shoulders as he fell
back. His face turned, and was pillowed on
her bosom. At this she blushed, but a look of
singular dignity came into her face. Those
standing by were struck with a kind of awe;
they were used mostly to the daughters of
habitants and fifty-acre farmers. Her sensitive
face spoke a wonderful language ; a divine grat-
itude and thankfulness ; and her eyes had a clear
moisture which did not dim them. The situa-
tion was trying to the river-drivers — it was too
refined ; and they breathed more freely when
they got outside and left the girl, her grand-
father, Pierre, and the young doctor alone with
the injured man.

That was how the thing began. Pierre saw
the conclusion of events from the start. The
young doctor did not. From the hour when he
bound up Brydon's head, Judith's fingers aid-
ing him, he felt a spring in his blood new to him.

1 82 An Adventurer of the North

When he came to know exactly what it meant,
and acted, it was too late. He was much sur-
prised that his advances were gently repulsed.
He pressed them hard; that was a mistake. He
had an idea, not uncommon in such cases, that
he was conferring an honour. But he was very
young. A gold medal in anatomy is likely to
turn a lad's head at the start. He falls into the
error that the ability to demonstrate the medulla
oblongata should likewise suffice to convince the
heart of a maid. Pierre enjoyed the situation;
he knew life all round ; he had boxed the com-
pass of experience. He believed in Judith.
The old man interested him ; he was a wreck
out of an unfamiliar life.

" Well, you see," Pierre said to Brydon one
day, as they sat on the high cross-beams of the
little bridge, "you can't kill it in a man — what
he was born. Look, as he piles up the driftwood
over there. Broken down, eh ? Yes, but then
there is something — a manner, an eye. He
piles the wood like champagne bottles. On the
raft, you remember, he took off his hat to death.
That's different altogether from us ! "

He gave a sidelong glance at Brydon, and
saw a troubled look.

"Yes," Brydon said, "he is different : and so
is she."

The Bridge House 183

" She is a lady," Pierre said, with slow em-
phasis. "She couldn't hide it if she tried. She
plays the piano, and looks all silk in calico.
Made for this" — he waved his hand towards the
Bridge House. "No, no ! made for — "

He paused, smiled enigmatically, and drop-
ped a bit of wood on the swift current.

Brydon frowned, then said : " Well, made for
what, Pierre?"

Pierre looked over Brydon's shoulder, to-
wards a pretty cottage on the hillside. " Made
for homes like that, not this," he said, and he
nodded first towards the hillside, then to the
Bridge House. (The cottage belonged to the
young doctor.) A growl like an animal's came
from Brydon, and he clinched the other's shoul-
der. Pierre glanced at the hand, then at Bry-
don's face, and said sharply : "Take it away."

The hand dropped, but Brydon's face was
hot, and his eyes were hard.

Pierre continued : " But then women are
strange. What you expect they will not — no.
Riches ? — it is nothing ; houses like that on the
hill, nothing. They have whims. The hut is as
good as the house, with the kitchen in the open
where the river welts and washes, and a man —
the great man of the world to them — to play
the little game of life with. . . . Pshaw I you

1 84 An Adventurer of the North

are idle — move; you are thick in the head —
think hard ; you like the girl — speak !"

As he said this, there showed beneath them
the front timbers of a small crib of logs with a
crew of two men, making for the rapids and the
slide below. Here was an adventure, for run-
ning the rapids with so slight a craft and small
a crew was smart work. Pierre, measuring the
distance, and with a " Look out below ! " swiftly
let himself down by his arms as far as he could,
and then dropped to the timbers as lightly as if
it were a matter of two feet instead of twelve.
He waved a hand to Brydon, and the crib shot
on. Brydon sat eyeing it abstractedly till it ran
into the teeth of the rapids, the long oars of the
three men rising and falling to the monotonous
cry. The sun set out the men and the craft
against the tall dark walls of the river in strong
relief, and Brydon was carried away from what
Pierre had been saying. He had a solid plea-
sure in watching, and he sat up with a call of
delight when he saw the crib drive at the slide.
Just glancing the edge, she shot through safely.
His face blazed.

"A pretty sight," said a voice behind him.

Without a word he swung round, and drop-
ped, more heavily than Pierre, beside Judith.

The Bridge House 185

" It gets into our bones," he said. " Of
course, though, it ain't the same to you," he
added, looking down at her over his shoulder.
" You do n't care for things so rough, mebbe ?"

" I love the river," she said quietly.

" We 're a rowdy lot, we river-drivers. We
have to be. It 's a rowdy business."

" I never noticed that," she replied, gravely
smiling. " When I was small I used to go to
the river-drivers' camps with my brother, and
they were always kind to us. They used to sing
and play the fiddle, and joke ; but I did n't think
that they were rowdy, and I don't now. They
were never rough with us."

" No one 'd ever be rough with you," was the
reply.

" Oh yes," she said suddenly, and turned her
head away. She was thinking of what the
young doctor had said to her that morning ;
how like a foolish boy he had acted : upbraiding
her, questioning her, saying unreasonable things,
as young egotists always do. In years she was
younger than he, but in wisdom much older; in
all things more wise and just. He had not
struck her, but with his reckless tongue he had
cut her to the heart.

" Oh yes," she repeated, and her eyes ran up

1 86 An Adventurer of the North

to his face and over his great stalwart body ;
and then she leaned over the railing and looked
into the water.

" I 'd break the man in two that was rough
with you," he said between his teeth.

" Would you ? " she asked in a whisper.
Then, not giving him a chance to reply, " We
are very poor, you know, and some people are
rough with the poor — and proud. I remember,"
she went on, simply, dreamily, and as if talking
to herself, " the day when we first came to the
Bridge House. I sat down on a box and looked
at the furniture — it was so little — and cried.
Coming here seemed the last of what grand-
father used to be. I could n't help it. He sat
down too, and didn't say anything. He was
very pale, and I saw that his eyes ached as he
looked at me. Then I got angry with myself,
and sprang up and went to work — and we get
along pretty well."

She paused and sighed ; then, after a minute:
" I love the river ; I do n't believe I could be
happy away from it. I should like to live on it,
and die on it, and be buried in it."

His eyes were on her eagerly. But she looked
so frail and dainty, that his voice, to himself,
sounded rude. Still, his hand blundered along
the railing to hers, and covered it tenderly—

The Bridge House 187

for so big a hand. She drew her fingers away,
but not very quickly. " Do n't," she said, "and
— and some one is coming ! "

There were footsteps behind them. It was
her grandfather, carrying a board fished from
the river. He grasped the situation, and stood
speechless with wonder. He had never thought
of this. He was a gentleman, in spite of all, and
this man was a common river-boss. Presently he
drew himself up with an air. The heavy board
was still in his arms. Brydon came over and
took the board, looking him squarely in the eyes.

"Mr. Rupert," he said, "I want to ask some-
thing."

The old man nodded.

"I helped you out of a bad scrape on the
river ? "

Again the old man nodded.

" Well, mebbe, I saved your life. For that
I 'm going to ask you to draw no more drift-
wood from the Madawaska — not a stick, now or
ever."

" It is the only way we can keep from freez-
ing in winter." Mr. Rupert scarcely knew what
he said.

Brydon looked at Judith, who turned away,
then answered : "/'// keep you from freezing,
if you '11 let me, you — and Judith."

1 88 An Adventurer of the North

" Oh, please let us go into the house," Judith
said hastily.

She saw the young doctor driving towards
them out of the covered bridge !

When Brydon went to join his men far down
the river he left a wife behind him at the Bridge
House, where she and her grandfather were to
stay until the next summer. Then there would
be a journey from Bamber's Boom to a new home.

In the late autumn he came, before he went
away to the shanties in the backwoods, and again
in the winter just before the baby was born.
Then he went far up the river to Rice Lake and
beyond, to bring down the drives of logs for his
Company. June came, and then there was a
sudden sorrow at the Bridge House. How
great it was, Pierre's words as he stood at the
door one evening will testify. He said to the
young doctor : " Save the child, and you shall
have back the I.O.U. on your house:" which
was also evidence that the young doctor had
fallen into the habit of gambling.

The young doctor looked hard at him. He
had a selfish nature. " You can only do what
you can do," he said.

Pierre's eyes were sinister. "If you do not
save it, one would guess why."

The other started, flushed, was silent, and

The Bridge House 189

then said : " You think I 'm a coward. We
shall see. There is a way, but it may fail."

And though he sucked the diphtheria poison
from the child's throat, it died the next night.

Still, the cottage that Pierre and Company
had won was handed back with such good ad-
vice as only a world-wise adventurer can give.

Of the child's death its father did not know.
They were not certain where he was. But when
the mother took to her bed again, the young
doctor said it was best that Brydon should come.
Pierre had time and inclination to go for him.
But before he went he was taken to Judith's bed-
side. Pierre had seen life and death in many
forms, but never anything quite like this : a
delicate creature floating away upon a summer
current : travelling in those valleys which are
neither of this life nor of that; but where you
hear the echoes of both, and are visited by solic-
itous spirits. There was no pain in her face —
she heard a little, familiar voice from high and
pleasant hills, and she knew, so wise are the
dying, that her husband was travelling after her,
and that they would all be together soon. But
she did not speak of that. For the knowledge
born of such a time is locked up in the soul.

Pierre was awe-stricken. Unconsciously he
crossed himself.

An Adventurer of the North

" Tell him to come quickly," she said, " if
you find him " — her fingers played with the cov-
erlet— " for I wish to comfort him. . . . Some-
one said that you were bad, Pierre. I do not
believe it. You were sorry when my baby went
away. I am — going away — too. But do not
tell him that. Tell him I cannot walk about.
I want him to carry me — to carry me. Will
you?"

Pierre put out his hand to hers creeping
along the coverlet to him ; but it was only in-
stinct that guided him, for he could not see.
He started on his journey with his hat pulled
down over his eyes.

One evening when the river was very high
and it was said that Brydon's drives of logs
would soon be down, a strange thing happened
at the Bridge House.

The young doctor had gone, whispering to
Mr. Rupert that he would come back later. He
went out on tiptoe, as from the presence of an
angel. His selfishness had dropped away from
him. The evening wore on, and in the little
back room a woman's voice said :

" Is it morning yet, father ?"

" It is still day. The sun has not set, my
child."

" I thought it had gone, it seemed so dark."

The Bridge House 191

"You have been asleep, Judith. You have
come out of the dark."

" No, I have come out into the darkness —
into the world."

" You will see better when you are quite
awake."

" I wish I could see the river, father. Will
you go and look ? "

Then there was a silence. " Well ? " she
asked.

"It is beautiful," he said, "and the sun is
still bright."

" You see as far as Indian Island ?"

"I can see the white comb of the reef beyond
it, my dear."

"And no one — is coming?"

"There are men making for the shore, and the
fires are burning, but no one is coming this
way. . . . He would come by the road,
perhaps."

"Oh no, by the river. Pierre has not found
him. Can you see the Eddy?"

"Yes. It is all quiet there; nothing but the
logs tossing round it."

" We used to sit there — he and I — by the big
cedar tree. Everything was so cool and sweet.
There was only the sound of the force-pump and
the swallowing of the Eddy. They say that a

1 92 An Adventurer of the North

woman was drowned there, and that you can see
her face in the water, if you happen there at
sunrise, weeping and smiling also : a picture in
the water. . . . Do you think it true, father ? "

"Life is so strange, and who knows what is
not life, my child?"

"When baby was dying I held it over the
water beneath that window, where the sunshine
falls in the evening ; and it looked down once
before its spirit passed like a breath over my
face. Maybe, its look will stay, for him to see
when he comes. It was just below where you
stand. . . . Father, can you see its face?"

"No, Judith; nothing but the water and the
sunshine!"

"Dear, carry me to the window."

When this was done she suddenly leaned
forward with shining eyes and anxious fingers.
"My baby ! My baby !" she said.

She looked up the river, but her eyes were
fading, she could not see far. "It is all a grey
light," she said, " I cannot see well." Yet she
smiled. "Lay me down again, father," she
whispered.

After a little she sank into a slumber. All at
once she started up. "The river, the beautiful
river ! " she cried out gently. Then, at the last,
"Oh, my dear, my dear!"

The Bridge House 193

And so she came out of the valley into the
high hills.

Later he was left alone with his dead. The
young doctor and others had come and gone.
He would watch till morning. He sat long be-
side her, numb to the world. At last he started,
for he heard a low, clear call behind the House.
He went out quickly to the little platform, and
saw through the dusk a man drawing himself up.
It was Brydon. He caught the old man's
shoulders convulsively. "How is she?" he
asked.

"Come in, my son," was the low reply. The
old man saw a grief greater than his own. He
led the husband to the room where the wife lay
beautiful and still.

"She is better, as you see," he said bravely.

The hours went, and the two sat near the
body, one on either side. They knew not what
was going on in the world.

As they mourned, Pierre and the young doctor
sat silent in that cottage on the hillside. They
were roused at last. There came up to Pierre's
keen ears the sound of the river.

"Let us go out," he said ; "the river is flood-
ing. You can hear the logs."

They came out and watched. The river went
swishing, swilling past, and the dull boom of the

IQ4 An Adventurer of the North

logs as they struck the piers of the bridge or
some building on the shore came rolling to
them.

"The dams and booms have burst!" Pierre
said.

He pointed to the camps far up the river.
By the light of the camp-fires there appeared a
wide weltering flood of logs and debris. Pierre's
eyes shifted to the Bridge House. In one room
was a light. He stepped out and down, and
the other followed. They had almost reached
the shore, when Pierre cried out sharply :
"What's that?"

He pointed to an indistinct mass bearing
down upon the ' Bridge House. It was a big
shed that had been carried away, and, jammed
between timbers, had not broken up. There
was no time for warning. It came on swiftly,
heavily. There was a strange, horrible, grinding
sound, and then they saw the light of that one
room move on, waving a little to and fro — on to
the rapids, the cohorts of logs crowding hard
after.

Where the light was two men had started to
their feet when the crash came. They felt the
House move.

"Run — save yourself!" cried the old man
quietly. "We are lost!"

The Bridge House 195

The floor rocked.

"Go," he said again. "I will stay with her."

"She is mine," Brydon said; and he took her
in his arms. "I will not go."

They could hear the rapids below. The old
man steadied himself in the deep water on the
floor, and caught out yearningly at the cold
hands.

"Come close, come close," said Brydon.
"Closer; put your arms round her."

Mr. Rupert did so. They were locked in
each other's arms — dead and living.

The old man spoke, with a piteous kind of

j°y;

" We therefore commit her body to the deep — /"
The three were never found.

The Epaulettes

Old Athabasca, chief of the Little Crees, sat
at the door of his lodge, staring down into the
valley where Fort Pentecost lay, and Mitawawa
his daughter sat near him, fretfully pulling at
the fringe of her fine buckskin jacket. She
had reason to be troubled. Fyles the trader
had put a great indignity upon Athabasca. A
factor of twenty years before, in recognition of
the chief's merits and in reward of his services,
had presented him with a pair of epaulettes,
left in the fort by some officer in Her Majesty's
service. A good, solid, honest pair of epau-
lettes, well fitted to stand the wear and tear of
those high feasts and functions at which the
chief paraded them upon his broad shoulders.
They were the admiration of his own tribe,
the wonder of others, and the envy of many
chiefs. It was said that Athabasca wore them
creditably, and was no more immobile and
grand-mannered than became a chief thus
honored above his kind.
196

The Epaulettes 197

But the years went, and there came a man
to Fort Pentecost that knew not Athabasca.
He was young, and tall and strong, had a hot
temper, knew naught of human nature, was
possessed by a pride more masterful than his
wisdom, and a courage stronger than his tact.
He was ever for high-handedness, brooked no
interference, and treated the Indians more as
Company's serfs than as Company's friends and
allies. Also, he had an eye for Mitawawa, and
found favor in return, though to what depth it
took a long time to show. The girl sat high in
the minds and desires of the young braves, for
she had beauty of a heathen kind, a deft and
dainty finger for embroidered buckskin, a par-
ticular fortune with a bow and arrow, and the
fleetest foot.

There were mutterings now because Fyles
the white man came to sit often in Athabasca's
lodge. He knew of this, but heeded not at
all. At last Konto, a young brave, who very
accurately guessed at Fyles' intentions, stopped
him one day on the Grey Horse Trail, and in a
soft, indolent voice begged him to prove his
regard, in a fight without weapons, to the death,
the survivor to give the other burial where he
fell. Fyles was neither fool nor coward. It
would have been foolish to run the risk of leav-

198 An Adventurer of the North

ing Fort and people masterless for an Indian's
whim; it would have been cowardly to do noth-
ing. So he whipped out a revolver, and bade
his rival march before him to the Fort, which
Konto very calmly did, begging the favor of a
bit of tobacco as he went.

Fyles demanded of Athabasca that he should
sit in judgment and should at least banish
Konto from his tribe, hinting the while that he
might have to put a bullet into Konto's refrac-
tory head if the thing were not done. He said
large things in the name of the H. B. C., and
was surprised that Athabasca let them pass un-
moved. But that chief, after long considera-
tion, during which he drank Company's coffee
and ate Company's pemmican, declared that he
could do nothing, for Konto had made a fine
offer, and a grand chance of a great fight had
been missed.

This was in the presence of several petty
officers and Indians and woodsmen at the Fort.
Fyles had vanity and a nasty temper. He
swore a little, and with words of bluster went
over and ripped the epaulettes from the chief's
shoulders, as a punishment, a mark of degrada-
tion. The chief said nothing. He got up, and
reached out his hands as if to ask them back;
and when Fyles refused, he went away, drawing

The Epaulettes 199

his blanket high over his shoulders. It was
wont before to lie loosely about him, to show
his badges of captaincy and alliance.

This was about the time that the Indians
were making ready for the buffalo, and when
their chief took to his lodge and refused to
leave it they came to ask him why. And they
were told. They were for making trouble, but
the old chief said the quarrel was his own: he
would settle it in his own way. He would not
go to the hunt. Konto, he said, should take
his place; and when his braves came back there
should be great feasting, for then the matter
would be ended.

Half the course of the moon and more, and
Athabasca came out of his lodge — the first time
in the sunlight since the day of his disgrace.
He and his daughter sat silent and watchful at
the door. There had been no word between
Fyles and Athabasca, no word between Mita-
wawa and Fyles. The fort was well-nigh ten-
antless, for the half-breeds also had gone after
buffalo, and only the trader, a clerk, and a half-
breed cook were left.

Mitawawa gave a little cry of impatience:
she had held her peace so long that even her
slow Indian nature could endure no more.
"What will my father Athabasca do?" sh«

2OO An Adventurer of the North

asked. " With idleness the flesh grows soft, and
the iron melts from the arm."

" But when the thoughts are stone, the body
is that of the Mighty Men of the Kimash Hills.
When the bow is long drawn, beware the ar-
row."

"It is no answer," she said; "what will my
father do?"

"They were of gold," he answered, "that
never grew rusty. My people were full of won-
der when they stood before me, and the tribes
had envy as they passed. It is a hundred
moons and one red mid-summer moon since the
Great Company put them on my shoulders.
They were light to carry, but it was as if I bore
an army. No other chief was like me. That is
all over. When the tribes pass they will laugn,
and my people will scorn me if I do not come
out to meet them with the yokes of gold."

"But what will my father do ?" she persisted.

"I have had many thoughts, and at night I
have called on the Spirits who rule. From the
top of the Hill of Graves I have beaten the soft
drum, and called, and sung the hymn which
wakes the sleeping Spirits : and I know the
way."

"What is the way?" Her eyes filled with a
kind of fear or trouble, and many times they

The Epaulettes 201

shifted from the Fort to her father, and back
again. The chief was silent. Then anger leapt
into her face.

"Why does my father fear to speak to his
child?" she said. "I will speak plain. I love
the man ; but I love my father also."

She stood up, and drew her blanket about
her, one hand clasped proudly on her breast. " I
cannot remember my mother; but I remember
when I first looked down from my hammock in
the pine tree, and saw my father sitting by the
fire. It was in the evening like this, but darker,
for the pines made great shadows. I cried out,
and he came and took me down, and laid me
between his knees, and fed me with bits of meat
from the pot. He talked much to me, and his
voice was finer than any other. There is no
one like my father — Konto is nothing; but the
voice of the white man, Fyles, had golden
words that our braves do not know, and I lis-
tened. Konto did a brave thing. Fyles, be-
cause he was a great man of the Company,
would not fight, and drove him like a dog.
Then he made my father as a worm in the eyes
of the world. I would give my life for Fyles
the trader, but I would give more than my life
to wipe out my father's shame, and to show that
Konto of the Little Crees is no dog. I have

202 An Adventurer of the North

been carried by the hands of the old men of my
people, I have ridden the horses of the young
men ; their shame is my shame."

The eyes of the chief had never lifted from
the Fort ; nor from his look could you have
told that he heard his daughter's words. For a
moment he was silent, then a deep fire came
into his eyes, and his wide heavy brows drew up
so that the frown of anger was gone. At last,
as she waited, he arose, put out a hand and
touched her forehead.

"Mitawawa has spoken well," he said.
"There will be an end. The yokes of gold are
mine; an honour given cannot betaken away.
He has stolen ; he is a thief. He would not
fight Konto ; but I am a chief and he shall fight
me. I am as great as many men — I have car-
ried the golden yokes ; we will fight for them.
I thought long, for I was afraid my daughter
loved the man more than her people ; but now I
will break him in pieces. Has Mitawawa seen
him since the shameful day?"

"He has come to the lodge, but I would not
let him in unless he brought the epaulettes. He
said he would bring them when Konto was pun-
ished. I begged of him as I never begged of
my own father, but he was hard as the ironwood

The Epaulettes 203

tree. I sent him away. Yet there is no tongue
like his in the world; he is tall and beautiful,
and has the face of a spirit."

From the Fort Fyles watched the two. With
a pair of field-glasses he could follow their ac-
tions, could almost read their faces. "There'll
be a lot of sulking about those epaulettes, Mai-
lory," he said at last, turning to his clerk. "Old
Athabasca has a bee in his bonnet."

" Wouldn 't it be just as well to give 'em back,
sir?" Mallory had been at Fort Pentecost a
long time, and he understood Athabasca and his
Indians. He was a solid, slow-thinking old fel-
low, but he had that wisdom of the north which
can turn from dove to serpent and from serpent
to lion in the moment.

" Give 'em back, Mallory ? I '11 see him in
Jericho first, unless he goes on his marrow-bones
and kicks Konto out of the camp."

"Very well, sir. But I think we'd better
keep an eye open."

" Eye open, be hanged ! If he 'd been going
to riot he 'd have done so before this. Besides,
the girl — !"

Mallory looked long and earnestly at his
master, whose forehead was glued to the field-
glass. His little eyes moved as if in debate, his

204 An Adventurer of the North

slow jaws opened once or twice. At last he
said : "I'd give the girl the go-by, Mr. Fyles, if
I was you, unless I meant to marry her."

Fyles suddenly swung round. "Keep your
place, blast you, Mallory, and keep your morals
too. One'd think you were a missionary."
Then with a sudden burst of anger : " Damn it
all, if my men don't stand by me against a pack
of treacherous Indians, I'd better get out."

"Your men will stand by you, sir; no fear.
I've served three traders here, and my record is
pretty clean, Mr. Fyles. But I '11 say it to your
face, whether you like it or not, that you're not
as good a judge of the Injin as me, or even Due
the cook; and that's straight as I can say it, Mr.
Fyles."

Fyles paced up and down in anger — not
speaking ; but presently threw up the glass and
looked towards Athabasca's lodge. "They're
gone," he said presently; "I'll go and see them
to-morrow. The old fool must do what I want
or there'll be ructions."

The moon was high over Fort Pentecost
when Athabasca entered the silent yard. The
dogs growled, but Indian dogs growl without
reason, and no one heeds them. The old chief
stood a moment looking at the windows, upon
which slush-lights were throwing heavy shadows.

The Epaulettes 205

He went to Fyles' window ; no one was in the
room. He went to another; Mallory and Due
were sitting at a table. Mallory had the epau-
lettes, looking at them, and fingering the hooks
by which Athabasca had fastened them on. Due
was laughing ; he reached over for an epaulette,
tossed it up, caught it and threw it down with a
guffaw. Then the door opened, and Athabasca
walked in, seized the epaulettes, and went swift-
ly out again. Just outside the door Mallory
clapped a hand on one shoulder, and Due
caught at the epaulettes.

Athabasca struggled wildly. All at once
there was a cold white flash, and Due came
huddling to Mallory's feet. For a brief instant
Mallory and the Indian fell apart, then Atha-
basca with a contemptuous fairness tossed his
knife away, and ran in on his man. They
closed; strained, swayed, became a tangled
wrenching mass; and then Mallory was lifted
high into the air, and came down with a broken
back.

Athabasca picked up the epaulettes, and hur-
ried away, breathing hard, and hugging them to
his bare, red-stained breast. He had nearly
reached the gate when he heard a cry. He did
not turn, but a heavy stone caught him high in
the shoulders, and he fell on his face and lay

206 An Adventurer of the North

clutching the epaulettes in his outstretched
hands.

Fyles' own hands were yet lifted with the
effort of throwing when he heard the soft rush
of footsteps and someone came swiftly into his
embrace. A pair of arms ran round his shoul-
ders— lips closed with his — something ice-cold
and hard touched his neck — he saw a bright
flash at his throat.

In the morning Konto found Mitawawa sit-
ting with wild eyes by her father's body. She
had fastened the epaulettes on its shoulders.
Fyles and his men made a grim triangle of death
at the door of the Fort.

The -Finding of Fingall

" Fingall ! Fingall! Oh, Fingall!"
A grey mist was rising from the river, the
sun was drinking it delightedly, the swift blue
water showed underneath it, and the top of
Whitefaced Mountain peaked the mist by a
hand-length. The river brushed the banks like
rustling silk, and the only other sound, very
sharp and clear in the liquid monotone, was the
crack of a woodpecker's beak on a hickory tree.
It was a sweet, fresh autumn morning in
Lonesome Valley. Before night the deer would
bellow reply to the hunters' rifles, and the moun-
tain-goat call to its unknown gods ; but now
there was only the wild duck skimming the river,
and the high hill-top rising and fading into the
mist, the ardent sun, and again that strange cry:
"Fingall! Oh, Fingall! Fingall!"
Two men, lounging at a fire on a ledge of
the hills, raised their eyes to the mountain-side
beyond and above them, and one said presently :
"The second time. It's a woman's voice,
Pierre."

207

208 An Adventurer of the North

Pierre nodded, and abstractedly stirred the
coals about with a twig.

"Well, it is a pity— the poor Cynthie," he
said at last.

" It is a woman, then. You know her, Pierre
— her story?"

"Fingall! Fingall.' Oh, Fingall!"

Pierre raised his head towards the sound ;
then after a moment, said :

" I know Fingall."

" And the woman ? Tell me."

"And the girl. Fingall was all fire and
heart, and devil-may-care. She — she was not
beautiful except in the eye, but that was like a
flame of red and blue. Her hair, too — then —
would trip her up, if it hung loose. That was
all, except that she loved him too much. But
women — et puts, when a woman gets a man be-
tween her and the heaven above and the earth
beneath, and there comes the great hunger,
what is the good ? A man cannot understand,
but he can see and he can fear. What is the
good ! To play with life, that is not much ; but
to play with soul is more than a thousand lives.
Look at Cynthie."

He paused, and Lawless waited patiently.
Presently Pierre continued:

" Fingall was gentil ; he would take off his hat

The Finding of Fingall 209

to a squaw. It made no difference what others
did, he didn't think — it was like breathing to
him. How can you tell the way things happen?
Cynthie's father kept the tavern at St. Gabriel's
Fork, over against the great sawmill. Fingall
was foreman of a gang in the lumber-yard.
Cynthie had a brother — Fenn. Fenn was as bad
as they make, but she loved him, and Fingall
knew it well, though he hated the young skunk.
The girl's eyes were like two little fireflies when
Fingall was about.

" He was a gentleman, though he had only
half a name — Fingall — like that. I think he did
not expect to stay; he seemed to be waiting for
something — always when the mail come in he
would be there; and afterwards you wouldn't
see him for a time. So it seemed to me that he
made up his mind to think nothing of Cynthie,
and to say nothing."

"Fingall! Fingall! Oh, Fingall !"
The strange, sweet, singing voice sounded
nearer.

"She's coming this way, Pierre," said Law-
less.

"I hope not to see her. What is the good?"
"Well, let us have the rest of the story."
"Her brother Fenn was in Fingall's gang.
One day there was trouble. Fenn called Fin-

2IO An Adventurer of the North

gall a liar. The gang stopped piling; the usual
thing did not come. Fingall told him to leave
the yard, and they would settle some other time.
That night a wicked thing happened. We were
sitting in the bar-room when we heard two shots
and then a fall. We ran into the other room ;
there was Fenn on the floor, dying. He lifted
himself on his elbow, pointed at Fingall — and
fell back. The father of the boy stood white
and still a few feet away. There was no pistol
showing — none at all.

"The men closed in on Fingall. He did not
stir — he seemed to be thinking of something
else. He had a puzzled, sorrowful look. The
men roared round him, but he waved them back
for a moment, and looked first at the father,
then at the son. I could not understand at first.
Someone pulled a pistol out of Fingall's pocket
and showed it. At that moment Cynthie came
in. She gave a cry. By the holy ! I do not
want to hear a cry like that often ! She fell on
her knees beside the boy, and caught his head to
her breast. Then with a wild look she asked
who did it. They had just taken Fingall out
into the bar-room. They did not tell her his
name, for they knew that she loved him.

"'Father,' she said all at once, 'have you
killed the man that killed Fenn?'

The Finding of Fingall 21 1

"The old man shook his head. There was a
sick color in his face.

"'Then I will kill him,' she said.

"She laid her brother's head down, and stood
up. Someone put in her hand the pistol, and
told her it was the same that had killed Fenn. She
took it, and came with us. The old man stood
still where he was; he was like stone. I looked
at him for a minute and thought ; then I turned
round and went to the bar-room ; and he fol-
lowed. Just as I got inside the door, I saw the
girl start back, and her hand drop, for she saw
that it was Fingall ; he was looking at her very
strange. It was the rule to empty the gun into
a man who had been sentenced ; and already
Fingall had heard his ' God-have-mercy ! ' The
girl was to do it.

"Fingall said to her in a muffled voice, 'Fire
— Cynthie ! '

"I guessed what she would do. In a kind
of a dream she raised the pistol up — up — up, till
I could see it was just out of range of his head,
and she fired. One ! two ! three ! four ! five !
Fingall never moved a muscle ; but the bullets
spotted the wall at the side of his head. She
stopped after the five ; but the arm was still held
out, and her finger was on the trigger; she
seemed to be all dazed. Only six chambers

212 An Adventurer of the North

were in the gun, and of course one chamber was
empty. Fenn had its bullet in his lungs, as we
thought. So someone beside Cynthie touched
her arm, pushing it down. But there was an-
other shot, and this time, because of the push,
the bullet lodged in Fingall's skull."

Pierre paused now, and waved with his hand
toward the mist which hung high up like a can-
opy between the hills.

"But," said Lawless, not heeding the scene,
"what about that sixth bullet ?"

" Holy, it is plain ! Fingall did not fire the
shot. His revolver was full, every chamber, when
Cynthie first took it.

"Who killed the lad?"

" Can you not guess ? There had been
words between the father and the boy : both
had fierce blood. The father, in a mad minute,
fired ; the boy wanted revenge on Fingall, and,
to save his father, laid it on the other. The
old man ? Well, I do not know whether he was
a coward, or stupid, or ashamed — he let Fingall
take it."

" Fingall took it to spare the girl, eh ? "

" For the girl. It wasn't good for her to
know her father killed his own son."

" What came after ? "

"The worst. That night the girl's father

The Finding of Fingall 213

killed himself, and the two were buried in the
same grave. Cynthie — "

"Fingall / Fingall!— Oh, Fingall/"
"You hear? Yes, like that all the time as
she sat on the floor, her hair about her like a
cloud, and the dead bodies in the next room.
She thought she had killed Fingall, and she
knew now that he was innocent. The two were
buried. Then we told her that Fingall was not
dead. She used to come and sit outside the
door, and listen to his breathing, and ask if he
ever spoke of her. What was the good of lying?
If we said he did, she'd have come in to him,
and that would do no good, for he wasn't right
in his mind. By and by we told her he was
getting well, and then she didn't come, but
stayed at home, just saying his name over to
herself. Alors, things take hold of a woman —
it is strange ! When Fingall was strong enough
to go out, I went with him the first time. He
was all thin and handsome as you can think, but
he had no memory, and his eyes were like a
child's. She saw him, and came out to meet
him. What does a woman care for the world
when she loves altogether ? Well, he just looked
at her as if he 'd never seen her before, and
passed by without a sign, though afterwards a
trouble came in his face. Three days later he

214 An Adventurer of the North

was gone, no one knew where. That is two year?
ago. Ever since she has been looking for him."

" Is she mad ? "

" Mad ? Holy Mother ! It is not good to
have one thing in the head all the time ! What
do you think ? So much all at once ! And
then — "

"Hush! Pierre! There she is !" said Law-
less, pointing to a ledge of rock not far away.

The girl stood looking out across the valley,
a weird, rapt look in her face, her hair falling
loose, a staff like a shepherd's crook in one
hand, the other hand over her eyes as she slowly
looked from point to point of the horizon.

The two watched her without speaking.
Presently she saw them. She gazed at them for
a minute, then descended to them. Lawless
and Pierre rose, doffing their hats. She looked
at both a moment, and her eyes settled on Pierre.
Presently she held out her hand to him.

"I knew you — yesterday," she said.

Pierre returned the intensity of her gaze with
one kind and strong.

" So-so, Cynthie," he said ; " sit down and
eat."

He dropped on a knee and drew a scone and
some fish from the ashes. She sat facing them,
and, taking from a bag at her side some wild

The Finding of Fingall 215

fruits, ate slowly, saying nothing. Lawless no-
ticed that her hair had become gray at her tem-
ples, though she was but one-and-twenty years
old. Her face, brown as it was, shone with a
white kind of light, which may, or may not,
have come from the crucible of her eyes, where
the tragedy of her life was fusing. Lawless
could not bear to look long, for the fire that
consumes a body and sets free a soul is not for
the sight of the quick. At last she rose, her
body steady, but her hands having that tremu-
lous activity of her eyes.

"Will you not stay, Cynthie ?" asked Law-
less very kindly.

She came close to him, and, after searching
his eyes, said with a smile that almost hurt him,
" When I have found him, I will bring him to
your camp-fire. Last night the Voice said to
me that he waits for me where the mist rises
from the river at daybreak, close to the home
of the White Swan. Do you know where is the
home of the White Swan ? Before the frost
comes and the red wolf cries, I must find him.
Winter is the time of sleep ; I will give him
honey and dried meat. I know where we shall
live together. You never saw such roses !
Hush ! I have a place where we can hide."

Suddenly her gaze became fixed and dream-

2i6 An Adventurer of the North

like, and she said slowly: "In all time of our
tribulation, in all time of our wealth, in the
hour of death, and in the Day of Judgment,
Good Lord, deliver us ! "

" Good Lord, deliver us ! " repeated Law-
less, in a low voice. Without looking at them,
she slowly turned away and passed up the hill-
side, her eyes scanning the valley as before.

" Good Lord, deliver us ! " again said Law-
less. " Where did she get it ?"

" From a book which Fingall left behind."

They watched her till she rounded a cliff,
and was gone ; then they shouldered their kits
and passed up the river on the trail of the wapiti.
One month later, when a fine white surf of frost
lay on the ground, and the sky was darkened
often by the flight of the wild geese southward,
they came upon a hut perched on a bluff, at the
edge of a clump of pines. It was morning,
and White-faced Mountain shone clear and high,
without a touch of cloud or mist from its
haunches to its crown.

They knocked at the hut door, and, in answer
to a voice, entered. The sunlight streamed in
over a woman, lying upon a heap of dried
flowers in a corner. A man was kneeling beside
her. They came near and saw that the woman
was Cynthie.

The Finding of Fingall 217

"Fingall!" broke out Pierre, and caught
the kneeling man by the shoulder. At the sound
of his voice the woman's eyes opened.

"Fingall ! — Oh, Fingall!" she said, and
reached up a hand.

Fingall stooped and caught her to his breast:

" Cynthie ! poor girl ! Oh, my poor Cyn-
thie ! " he said.

In his eyes, as in hers, was a sane light, and
his voice, as hers, said indescribable things.

Her head sank upon his shoulder, her eyes
closed ; she slept. Fingall laid her down with
a sob in his throat ; then he sat up and clutched
Pierre's hand.

" In the East, where the doctors cured me, I
heard all," he said, pointing to her, "and I came
to find her. I was just in time ; I found her
yesterday."

"She knew you ?" whispered Pierre.

"Yes, but this fever came on." Returned
and looked at her, and, kneeling, smoothed
away the hair from the quiet face. " Poor girl!"
he said ; " poor girl !"

" She will get well ?" asked Pierre.

" God grant it ! " Fingall replied. " She is
better — better !"

Lawless and Pierre softly turned and stole

218 An Adventurer of the North

away, leaving the man alone with the woman he

loved.

The two stood in silence, looking upon the

river beneath. Presently a voice crept through

the stillness.

" Fingall ! Oh, Fingall !— Fingall ! "

It was the voice of a woman returning from

the dead.

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