CHAPTER XVIII
IN NEW CLUTCHES
Four hundred and fifty miles southwest of Sturgeon Lake, as the
hawk flies, is Winnipeg—formerly the Fort Carry of Hudson Bay
fame, and before that the Fort Douglas of battle, murder, and sudden
death. As Peter Rainy expected to make the journey, the distance
was nearer seven hundred miles. From Sturgeon Lake, he would strike
east to the north branch of the Sachigo, and follow that down to
its junction with the main river. Then, turning south, for two
hundred miles, his would be a straight course up the Sachigo and
through a chain of lakes that almost would carry him to Sandy Lake.
Southwest, he would rush through Favorable Lake, Deer Lake, Little
Trout, and unimportant waterways, until he reached Fort Alexander
on a thumb of Lake Winnipeg (that three-hundred-mile terror).
Discounting blizzards, he could make seventy-five miles a day down
that fine waterway to the mouth of the Red River, and, from there,
thirty-five miles would land him in the thriving capital of Manitoba.
Such was the course that McTavish pricked for him on a map, and
the old Indian studied it all that day, until it was a part of the
vast lore that lay behind his expressionless eyes.
Night fell, and a pure moon rose out of the east, spreading a flood
of light over snow-fields and through forest aisles. Peter Rainy
cursed heartily at the misfortune, and, as if the sky spirits were
afraid of him, a great mass of solemn clouds bulked out of the
northwest, and extinguished the gay young moon forthwith. They
brought with them a bitter wind and a snowstorm, so that when he
finally struggled down the blast, Donald almost overran his objective
point. With him were a sledge, dog-train, and provisions. In answer
to Rainy's inquiries, he merely said:
“I'm on parole, and can go anywhere, and, as for these things—I
have friends in the camp!”
Loath to part with his faithful companion, he accompanied the Indian
a little way on the journey, and then returned to the camp, happier
and more hopeful than he had been in many hours.
Because of the storm, shed-tents had been set up, and the men were
gathered under them for the night. Entering that of the trappers
with whom he had camped the night before, Donald comfortably lighted
his pipe, and started in to satisfy his curiosity in regard to the
campaign that had already been carried on against the Free-Traders'
Brotherhood. His companions, one of whom was Timmins, a clerk in
the Company's store at Fort Severn, and the other a trader at the
warehouse, enlightened him.
“For a week now,” said Timmins, spitting into the fire
contemplatively, “there hasn't been much doing. But, before that,
shots popped around here considerable. Fitzpatrick thought, and
still thinks, I guess, that the only way to nip this free-trader
business in the bud was to go at it in the old-fashioned way, with
bullets. So, as soon as we had a camp here, we started after those
fellows. But they were ready for us, and, when it was all over,
three or four of our men were wounded, and nothing was accomplished.
The factor got a touch himself, as you know, and, since that, there
hasn't been much doing. The old bear is trying to work out a scheme
that'll finish things once and for all.”
“I expect there'll be action pretty soon, won't there?” Donald
asked.
“Yes, I reckon there will. Now that you've brought Miss Jean back,
and the old man's mind is easy, I imagine he'll have a brand new
way for us to die worked out in a short while.”
“What are these fellows free trading for, anyhow? Don't we treat
them right?” Donald questioned, with loyal indignation.
“Aw, sure we do,” drawled Buxton, the trader; “too right, I guess.
If they had the old discipline in force, I guess they'd know who
was good to them. These fellers have got a grand idea of their
own importance, that fellow Seguis especially, and they've bargained
with a French fur company, as far as I can gather. The Frenchies
have been successful in the Rockies and on the Mackenzie, and
they're figuring on starting a post or so in this territory. Of
course, they offer better terms than we do—more tobacco and flour
and truck for a 'beaver' of fur—but I don't think they can make
headway—at least, not against old Fitzpatrick. He's as set as a
hill, as tough as an old oak limb, and as cussed as a stoat.”
From time immemorial in the fur trade, all bartering has been
carried on in terms of “beaver.” That is, a prime beaver skin is
the unit of currency between the Company and its hunters. Not long
since, an otter skin equaled ten “beaver,” twenty rabbit equaled
one “beaver,” one marten equaled two and a half “beaver”; and so
on down, or up, the scale. ... This, from the Company's point
of view.
From that of the hunter, a “beaver” in trade (usually represented
by a stamped leaden counter), was worth so much in merchandise—a
large red handkerchief, or a hunting-knife, or a looking-glass.
Two “beaver” would buy an ax, twenty a gun of a certain quality,
and so on through the list of necessities.
When a hunter brings in his bales of fur, he takes them to the
warehouse, where they are assorted and appraised by the chief
trader, after much haggling. When the value is determined, the
trader pushes over the counter as many “beaver” (lead pellets), as
the furs are worth. The hunter takes these to the store, and, after
much travail and advice, exchanges them for winter supplies and
gewgaws that strike his fancy. In this primitive way is wrought
the gigantic trade that covers woman with fur, from queens with
their ermine to the shop-girl with her scraggly muskrat or rabbit.
As the talk went on around him, McTavish recognized the old story
of the free-traders, men who hunted and trapped without any definite
allegiance to one company or another, and disposed of their catch
to the best advantage. As he had known all his life, the “barrens”
about Hudson Bay remained the only country that had successfully
kept the independents at bay. There had been other attempts at
intrusion, many of them; but none so well organized or determined
in spirit as this present one. The old, inbred loyalty to the
Company told him that free-traders must be got out of the way. As
far as he was concerned, he hoped action would come quickly—he
did not wish too much time by himself to think.
Finally, Timmins yawned, and suggested that they turn in. But
McTavish was restless. He slipped on his snowshoes, declared he
would be back shortly, and left the tent. The nervous reaction of
all the excitement of the last day was in him, and he felt that he
needed the physical battling and buffeting of the storm to calm
the throbbing of his brain and settle him for the night. Drawing
his capote close around his face, he bent to the blast, and
shuffled along. Suddenly, he felt the nearness of a presence, and
raised his head, just in time to prevent going full into the wall
of a log cabin. He recoiled with a muttered curse, for there was
only one cabin in the settlement, and that belonged to Fitzpatrick.
Yes, it belonged to Fitzpatrick, and now it belonged to some one
else also—some one for whom longing had gnawed at McTavish's heart
all day. Once, during the afternoon, when he was secretly arranging
for Peter Rainy's supplies, he had seen her at a distance, and she
had waved to him, happily. What did she know? he wondered. Had
her father done his worst, and told her? Now, his arms yearned for
the feel of her slim, straight body; he yearned to hear her voice,
to look into her face.
Suddenly, some one bending to the storm as he had done, bumped full
into him, and he heard a sweet voice:
“Oh, I beg your pardon!
“Jean!” he cried joyously, and she raised her head.
“Donald!”
The next Instant, she was in his arms, clinging to him with an
abandon of passion he had never suspected in her. It thrilled him
from head to foot. Presently, he led her from the proximity of
the cabin to the shelter of a large tree at the edge of the camp.
“Oh, I couldn't sleep; I couldn't even try, so I told father I was
going to take a turn or two down the main 'street' of tents,” she
cried, in answer to Donald's question. “And to think of meeting
you! I'm so glad!”
“Are you really glad, princess?” he asked, trying to pierce the
gloom and the storm to see the expression of her face. “Hasn't he
told you?”
“Who told me? What?”
“Your father. This morning, he and I had a very unpleasant interview,
in which he opened up all his big guns. He finally silenced me
entirely. What the trouble was, and what influences he brought to
bear, I can't tell you, Jean. If he wants you to know, he'll tell
you. It is his object to ruin me in your sight. He has the facts,
and, I fear, the proofs, that make marriage between us almost an
impossibility; at any rate I'm sure your father would shoot me
before he would let the event take place.”
“Oh, what is it, Donald? You frighten me!” cried the girl. “You
frighten me with these indefinite hints and uncertainties. I beg
of you to tell me what the trouble is. I'll stand by you through
anything. Do you suppose I care whether my father will allow us to
marry or not? No, no, Donald; I think for myself now, as you once
said I should. Perhaps, I think too much. I—I—”
“What do you mean, dearest?” The girl had stopped, as though
embarrassed.
“I mean—I know you'll be ashamed of me, I mean—couldn't we,
to-night—Mr. Gates is in camp, and he will—”
“Marry us?”
“Yes, Donald.” And she hid her face against him, a face that flushed
hotly and excitedly.
He caught her close during a delicious moment, for the storm held
a privacy that was almost impenetrable. Then, with a groan, he
released her.
“Jean,” he said earnestly, “I can't do it. I would sell my soul to
marry you to-night—yes, actually sell it to the devil; but, as a
man who pretends to be honorable in his dealings, I can't. Oh, it
simply kills me, this refusal; but the fact of it is that I love
you too much to risk your future happiness.”
“Oh, boy, boy!” she cried pitifully. “What can be happiness for me
but the having of you always? If you've done wrong, I want you.
Whatever this awful thing is that is ruining our lives, I don't
cafe. I only know one thing, and that is I want you!”
Had he known women as some men know them, Donald would have taken
her tone and her passion as passports to heaven, and hunted up the
fat and spectacled Mr. Gates then and there, and this story would
have ended. But he did not. He was straightforward and unsophisticated
in a manly way, and knew his duty; and he also knew it was not now
that Jean might regret her step, but at that important point of
life Pinero has so aptly named “mid-channel,” when the fire of
youth has burned out, and the main concern is with the ashes
remaining.
So, with the perfume of happiness in his nostrils, he put the
temptation from him, and told Jean over and over that she must
believe him to be acting for the best when he laid their lives out
on such lines of misery. And she, after a while, believed, as he
desired, and asked no more. Then, he told her that to know the
things against him would make her still more unhappy, since they
were not of his doing.
“You'll hear many things about me that are not true, and never
could be,” Donald said at the last; “but don't believe them. For
I have done nothing wrong. All I ask is your faith and trust in
me. With them, I'll willingly go through the valley of the shadow,
that in the end, some time, somewhere, we may be happy.”
“Those you shall have always,” was the reply; “and something else,
too, whenever you want it.”
“What is that?”
“A wife.”
He kissed her full upon the lips, and reluctantly let her go.
Through the storm a faint, muffled report sounded, as though a
rifle had been fired; the two listened intently. But they heard
nothing more, and Donald miserably watched Jean push open the rude
door of the little cabin. Only when Fitzpatrick's voice sounded
did he turn away.
Next morning, the sky had cleared, and there was a considerable
show of activity in the camp, as though some secret orders had been
issued. The men had not much more than finished breakfast when a
trapper, who had been out still-hunting game at sunrise, came
running in at the top of his speed, waving his rifle over his head.
No sooner was he within reach than he was surrounded by a circle
of the curious.
“There's the deuce to pay for somebody, boys,” he cried, “for I
just found the body of Indian Tom, old Maria's son, out there in
the woods. A bullet hole in the back did the trick. He was carrying
a gun, but it's still loaded and his cartridge-belt's full, so he
couldn't have done the job himself. I reached him just as he rattled
off, so it wasn't very long ago. Now, I don't know who had it in
for him. He was 'way beyond the sentry lines, and we're twenty
miles from the other camp. ... I wonder it any of the boys were
out in the woods last night?”
Donald, who had not heard the first of the speech, caught the last
sentence, and made inquiries. When he learned the facts, he laughed
shortly.
“Well, boys,” he remarked, “I was out in the woods last night; in
fact, I heard the shot that finished Indian Tom off.”
“Out in the woods? What were you doing out in the woods in a storm
like that, McTavish?” someone demanded.
Donald hesitated, and bit his lip with vexation. He was trapped.
It was next to the last thing in his mind to let Peter Rainy's
departure and goal become known, and it was the last to let Jean's
name be brought into any of his doings. But he was not a good liar,
and he groped frantically for an adequate answer.
“Come on—out with it! Is it so hard to remember?” drawled Buxton.
Still, Donald could not say anything. He laughed uneasily, and a
flush mounted to his hair.
“I guess, boys,” he finally blurted out, “I'd rather not say; it
was a private matter.”
The men looked at one another, and were silent. Finally, one,
bolder than the rest, cleared his throat.
“Didn't you give Tom an awful thrashing a little while back?” he
asked, significantly.
The flush became deeper on McTavish's face.
“It's none of your darned business, my friend,” he replied, acidly.
“But I'll answer your question. I did give him a good licking, and
he deserved it. How did you find it out?
“I dunno. It's just one of those things that drifted in. I couldn't
tell you now who sprung it. But I'm mighty sorry you did it.”
“Why?”
“Because, Captain McTavish, there is nothing to do but hold you on
suspicion. That's the least charge that can be made against you.
Andrew, go tell the factor what's happened, and say we'll bring
McTavish in shortly.”
“Look here, boys, you're not going to try and put that Indian's
death on me, are you?” Donald cried, aghast.
“Sorry, Mac; but what you yourself have admitted is enough to lock
you up, accused of murder in the first degree.”
“Heaven!” groaned Donald to himself. “Can anything else come
to me?”
A little later, as he looked down upon Angus Fitzpatrick, lying on
the bed of boughs, it seemed as though the old man had had a turn
for the worse. Donald recalled his grip on that wounded shoulder,
and smiled inwardly with pleasure, for his spirit was still bitterly
vindictive.
“Really, McTavish,” was the factor's firm greeting, “I never knew
any one to come up before me as regularly and for as many varieties
of crime as you do. Too bad you don't devote that splendid ingenuity
to something worthy.”
Donald smiled pleasantly, and inquired after the injured shoulder,
a question that turned the old man's sarcasm into fury, for he had
scarcely slept the night before, what with the pain of his wound,
and the nervous shock of the day.
“Well,” he snarled to the others, “what brings him here now?”
A spokesman told what had already occurred outside, and Fitzpatrick
listened intently. With a few rapid questions, he made certain that
Indian Tom could not have perpetrated the deed himself, either
purposely or accidentally. Then, he turned to the accused.
“Just where were you when you heard the shot, as you claim?” he
inquired, curtly.
Donald declared he had been at the edge of the camp, naming a
certain spot, and the man who had found the body identified the
place as well within gun-shot of the scene of the tragedy.
“Do you believe,” Fitzpatrick asked the hunter, “that a shot from
the tree where McTavish was could have reached and killed Indian
Tom?
“There's no doubt of it, sir.”
“Now, Captain McTavish, do you admit having had a personal encounter
with this Indian not long since?
“I do.” And Donald detailed the incident, ending with this remark:
“It would seem to me only ordinary common sense that Tom should go
gunning for me, and not I for him.”
“Yes, but a great many people, when they know an Indian is on their
trail, prefer to end matters themselves, rather than live in constant
suspense and fear.”
“I have yet to live in suspense or fear of any man,” returned Donald
significantly.
“Now, Captain McTavish,” the factor said, “will you please state
what took you to the edge of the camp last night during a storm of
such fierceness?”
“It was a private matter, solely, and I do not care to divulge it,”
was the unsatisfactory reply.
“More may depend upon this than you think,” warned the factor,
pawing at his beard with the old, familiar gesture. “I advise
you to tell.”
“I refuse to do so, but give you my word of honor that I had no
thought of Tom in mind. In fact, I had forgotten all about him.
But I did hear the shot. It was not very distant, and I was not
sure what the noise was. I waited for another, but none came.”
For another half-hour, the factor grilled his victim for further
information. But in vain. Then, furious at his failure, he ordered
McTavish placed under guard without parole, and in the next breath
commanded a second log cabin to be built as a jail wherein to
confine the prisoner.
“You have defied me long enough, McTavish,” he snarled, his eyes
gleaming with an ugly light, “and, by the eternal, you shall pay
for this. I'll make an example of you that the North country will
not forget in years. Already, you deserve punishment for breaking
out of Fort Severn; this is the last straw. We'll see whether the
Company can be set at naught by every underling in its employ.”
“What do you intend to do?” Donald asked.
“I shall try you on this charge of murder.”
“How can you try me on such a charge when you are here avowedly at
war? Tom, being the half-brother of Charley Seguis, naturally is an
enemy. Men at war can't be tried for murder, if they kill an enemy.”
“Indian Tom wasn't killed in battle; he was far beyond our sentry
lines. Your technicality has no weight,” retorted the factor,
grimly. “I am resolved that this crime shall not go unpunished,
just as I am resolved that Charley Seguis shall pay the penalty
for the death of Cree Johnny, if I can ever lay hands on him. You
shall have a fair trial, as is your due; but justice shall run
its course.”
“How soon will this travesty take place?” asked McTavish bitterly.
The factor restrained his temper with difficulty.
“As soon as possible,” he declared savagely. Then, turning to the
others present, he ordered: “Take him away.”
Already, outside, Donald could hear men attacking dead trees with
their axes for material to build the little cabin that was to be
his prison. His heart sank, for he felt instinctively that the
shanty would be his last earthly habitation. At length, the factor
had found what he wanted—an opportunity of legalizing the murder
for which his heart lusted.
Donald's morbid fancy could see the skeleton of the gibbet and the
hollow square of witnesses. He could feel the rope scratching his
neck. He could both see and feel, most hideous of all, the piercing
triumph in that dread hour of Fitzpatrick's gimlet eyes.
