YOUTH SUPREME
The silence of the night was broken by the sounds of youthful voices,
and the gentle splash of the driving paddles. There was laughter, and
the passing backwards and forwards of care-free, light-hearted banter.
Now and again came the deeper note of strong men’s voices, but for the
most part it was the shriller treble of early youth that invaded the
serene hush of the night.
The two small canoes glided rapidly up the winding ribbon of moon-lit
waters. They were driven by eager, skilful hands, hands with a
life-training for the work. And so they sped on in that smooth fashion
which the rhythmic dip of the paddle never fails to yield.
The Kid was at the foremost strut of the leading canoe with Big Bill
Wilder at the stern. Their passenger was the irrepressible Perse, who
lounged amidships on a folded blanket. Behind them came the sturdy form
of Chilcoot Massy guiding the destiny of the second vessel which carried
the youth, Clarence, and the sedate form of Mary Justicia lifted, for
the moment, out of the sense of her responsibility, which years of
deputising for her mother in the care of her brothers and sisters had
impressed upon her young mind.
Hearts were light enough as they glided through the chill night air.
Even Chilcoot Massy, so perilously near to middle life—and perhaps
because of it—found the youthful gaiety of his guests irresistible. It
was a journey of delighted, frothing spirits rising triumphant over the
dour brooding of the cold heart of the desolate territory which had
given them birth.
The cold moon had driven forth the earlier bankings of snow-clouds. It
lit the low-spread earth from end to end, a precious beacon, which, in
the months to come, would be the reigning heavenly light. The velvet
heavens, studded with myriads of sparkling jewels, and slashed again and
again from end to end with the lightning streak of shooting stars, were
filled with a superlative vision of dancing northern light. The
ghostliness of it all was teeming with a sense of romance, the romance
which fills the dreams of later life when the softening of recollection
has rubbed down the harshnesses of the living reality.
The delight of this sudden break in the crudeness of life waxed in the
hearts of these children of the North. There were moments when silence
fell, and the hush of the world crowded full of the ominous threat which
lies at the back of everything as the winter season approaches. But all
such moments were swiftly dismissed, as though, subconsciously, its
dampening influence were felt, and the moment was ripe for sheer
rebellion. It was an expression of the sturdy spirit which the Northland
breeds.
There was no thought of lurking danger other than the dangers they were
bred to. How should there be? Was not this Caribou River, with its
spring floodings, with its summer meanderings, with its winter casing of
ice, right down to the very heart of its bed, their very own highway and
play ground? Did not these folk know its every vagary from the icy moods
of winter, to its beneficent summer delights? How then could it hold for
them the least shadow of terror on a night to be given up to a gaiety
such as their lives rarely enough knew?
Yet the shadow was there, a grim, voiceless shadow, soundless as death,
and as unrelenting in its pursuit. A kyak moved over the silvery bosom
of the water hard behind the rear-most canoe of the revellers, driven by
a brown hand which made no sound as the paddle it grasped passed to and
fro, without lifting, through the gleaming water.
It was a light hide kyak, a mere shell that scarce had the weight of a
thing of feathers. And the brown man driving it was its only burden,
unless the long old rifle lying thrusting up from its prow could be
counted. It crept through the shallows dangerously near to the river
bank, and every turn in the twisting course of the silver highway was
utilized as a screen from any chance glance cast backwards by those
whose course it was dogging.
The shadowy pursuit went on. It went on right up to within a furlong of
the final landing. For the mood of the brown man was relentless with
every passion of original man stirring. But he never shortened by a yard
the distance that lay between him and his quarry. And as the leading
boats drew into the side, and the beacon light of a great camp fire
suddenly changed the silvery tone of the night, the pursuing kyak shot
into the bank far behind, and the brown man leapt ashore.
* * * * *
The feast was over. And what a feast it had been. There had been
mountain trout, caught and prepared by the grizzled camp cook, whose
atmosphere of general uncleanness emphasised his calling, and who was
the only other living creature in this camp on the gravel flats. There
had been baked duck, stuffed with some conglomeration of chopped
“sow-belly,” the mixing of which was the cook’s most profound secret.
There had been syrupy canned fruit, and canned sweet corn, and canned
beans with tomato. There had been real coffee. Not the everlasting
stewed tea of the trail. And then there had been canned milk full of
real cream.
That was the feast. But there had been much more than the simple joy of
feasting. There had been laughter and high spirits, and a wild delight.
How Perse had eaten and talked. How Clarence had eaten and listened. How
the Kid had shyly smiled, while Bill Wilder played his part as host, and
looked to the comfort of everybody. Then Mary Justicia. There was no
cleaning to do after. There was no Janey to wipe at intervals. So she
had given all her generous attention to the profound yarning of the
trail-bounded Chilcoot Massy.
The happy interim was drawing to a close. The camp fire was blazing
mountains high, a prodigal waste of precious fuel at such a season. And
the revellers were squatting around at a respectful distance,
contemplating it, and settling to a calm sobriety in various conditions
of delighted repletion.
The cold moonlight was forgotten. The chill of the air could no longer
be felt with the proximity of the fire. The Coming season gave no pause
for a moment’s regret. The only thought to disturb utter contentment was
that soon, all too soon, the routine of life would close down again,
and, one and all, it would envelop them.
Bill was lounging on a spread of skin rug, and the Kid and Mary Justicia
shared it with him. A yard away Chilcoot, who could never rise above a
seat on an upturned camp pot, was smoking and addressing Clarence, and
the more restless Perse, much in the fashion of a mentor. Their talk was
of the trail, the gold trail, as it was bound to be with the veteran
guiding it. He was narrating stories of “strikes,” rich “strikes,” and
wild rushes. He was recounting adventures which seemed literally to
stream out of his cells of memory to the huge enjoyment, and wonder, and
excitement of his youthful audience. And it was into the midst of this
calm delight the final uplift of the night’s entertainment came.
The whole thing was planned and worked up to. Chilcoot had led along the
road through his wealth of narrative. He was telling the story of
Eighty-Mile Creek. Of the great bonanza that had fallen into the laps of
himself and Bill Wilder. Of the tremendous rush after he and his partner
had secured their claims.
“It was us boys who located the whole darn ‘strike’” he said
appreciatively. “Us two. Bill an’ me. Say, they laffed. How they laffed
when we beat it up Eighty-Mile. Gold? Gee! Ther’ wasn’t colour other
than grey mud anywheres along its crazy course. That’s how the boys
said. They said: ‘Beat it right up it an’ feed the timber wolves.’ They
said—But, say, I jest can’t hand you haf the things them hoodlams
chucked at us. But Bill’s got a nose fer gold that ’ud locate it on a
skunk farm. He knew, an’ I was ready to foiler him if it meant feedin’
any old thing my carkiss. My, I want to laff. It was the same as your
Mum said when she heard we’d come along here chasin’ gold, only worse.
She couldn’t hand the stuff the boys could. An’ queer enough, now I
think it, Eighty-Mile was as nigh like this dam creek as two shucks.
Ther’s the mud, an’ the queer gravel, an’ the granite. Guess ther’ ain’t
the cabbige around this lay out like ther’ was to Eighty-Mile. You see,
we’re a heap further north, right here. No. Ther’ was spruce, an’ pine,
an’ tamarack to Eighty-Mile. Ther’s nothing better than dyin’ skitters
an’ hies you can smell a mile to Caribou. But the formation’s like. Sure
it is. An’ Bill’s nose—”
“Cut out the nose, Chilcoot, old friend,” Wilder broke in with a laugh.
“Ther’s a deal too much of my nose to this precious yarn. What you
coming to?”
A merry laugh from the Kid found an echo in Perse’s noisy grin.
“It’s good listenin’ to a yarn of gold,” he said. “It don’t hurt hanging
it up so we get the gold plenty at the end.”
“That’s so boy,” Chilcoot nodded approvingly. “That’s the gold man
talkin’. That’s how it was on Eighty-Mile. Ther’ was just tons of gold,
an’ we netted the stuff till we was plumb sick to death countin’ it.
Gold? Gee! Bill’s bank roll is that stuffed with it he could buy
a—territory. Yes, that was Eighty-Mile, the same as it is on—Caribou!”
“Caribou?”
Perse had leapt to his feet staring wide-eyed in his amazement. The Kid
had faced round gazing incredulously into Wilder’s smiling face. Even
Mary Justicia was drawing deep breaths under her habitual restraint. The
one apparently unmoved member of the happy party was Clarence. But even
his attitude was feigned.
“Same as it is on—Caribou?” he said, in a voice whose tone hovered
between youth and manhood. “Have you struck it on—Caribou?”
His final question was tense with suppressed excitement.
Chilcoot nodded in Bill’s direction.
“Ask him,” he said, with a smile twinkling in his eyes. “It’s that he
got you kids for right here this night. Jest to ask him that question.
Have you made the ‘strike,’ Bill? Did your darn old nose smell out
right? You best tell these folks, or you’ll hand ’em a nightmare they
won’t get over in a week. You best tell ’em. Or maybe you ken show ’em.
Ther’s folk in the world like to see, when gold’s bein’ talked, an’ I
guess Perse here’s one of ’em. Will you?”
All eyes were on Big Bill. The girls sat voicelessly waiting, and the
smiles on their faces were fixed with the intensity of the feeling
behind them. Clarence, like Perse, had stood up in his agitation, and
both boys gazed wide-eyed as the tall figure leapt to its feet and
passed back to the low “A” tent, which was his quarters.
While he was gone Chilcoot strove to fill in the interval with
appropriate comment.
“Yes,” he said, “Caribou’s chock full of the dust, an’—”
But no one was listening. Four pair of eyes were gazing after Big Bill,
four hearts were hammering in four youthful bosoms under stress of
feelings which in all human life the magic of gold never fails to
arouse. It was the same with these simple creatures, who had never known
a sight of gold, as it was with the most hardened labourer of the gold
trail. Everything but the prize these men had won was forgotten in that
thrilling moment.
Wilder came back almost at once. He was bearing a riffled pan, one of
those primitive manufactures which is so great a thing in the life of
the man who worships at the golden shrine. He was bearing it in both
hands as though its contents were weighty. And as he came, the Kid, no
less eagerly than the others, hurriedly dashed to his side to peer at
the thing he was carrying.
But the pan was covered with bagging. And the man smilingly denied them
all.
“Get right along back,” he laughed. “Sit around and I’ll show you.” Then
his eyes gazed down into the Kid’s upturned face, and he realised her
moment of sheer excitement had passed and something else was stirring
behind the pretty eyes that had come to mean so much to him. He nodded.
“Don’t be worried, Kid,” he said quietly. “Maybe I guess the thing
that’s troubling. I’m going to fix that, the same as I reckon to fix
anything else that’s going to make you feel bad.”
The girl made no reply. In her mind the shadow of Usak had arisen. And
even to her, in the circumstances, it was a threatening shadow. She
remembered the thing the savage had said to her in his violent protest.
“Him mans your enemy. Him come steal all thing what are yours. Him
river. Him land. Him—gold.” There was nothing in her thought that this
man was stealing from her. Such a thing could never have entered her
mind. It was the culminating threat of the savage that had robbed her of
her delight, and made the thing in the pan almost hateful to her. Usak
had deliberately threatened the life of this man, and the full force of
that threat, hitherto almost disregarded, now overwhelmed her with a
terror such as she had never known before.
She was the last to take her place on the spread of skins before the
fire. The others were crowding round the man with the pan. But he kept
them waiting till the girl had taken her place beside him. Then, and not
till then, without a word he squatted on the rugs and slowly withdrew
the bagging.
It was a breathless moment. Everything was forgotten but the amazing
revelation. Even the Kid, in that supreme moment, found the shadow of
Usak less haunting. The bagging was drawn clear.
There it lay in the bottom of the pan. A number of dull, yellow, jagged
nuggets lying on a bed of yellow dust nearly half an inch thick.
It was Perse who found the first words.
“Phew!” he cried with something resembling a whistle. “Dollars an’
dollars! How many? Did you get it on— Caribou?”
“Sure. Right on Caribou.”
Wilder nodded, his eyes contemplating his treasure.
“Where?”
It was Clarence who asked the vital question.
“You can’t get that—yet.” Wilder shook his head without looking up.
“Mum would be crazy to see this,” ventured the thoughtful Mary Justicia.
The Kid looked up. She had been dazzled by the splendid vision. Now
again terror was gripping her.
“You’ll not say a word of this. None of you,” she said sharply. “Mum
shall know. Oh, yes. But not a word to—Usak.”
Wilder raised his eyes to the girl’s troubled face.
“Don’t worry a thing,” he said gravely. “Usak’s going to know. I’m going
to hand him the talk myself.” Then he laughed. And the tone of his laugh
added further to the girl’s unease. It was so care-free and delighted.
“Sit around, kids,” he cried. “All of you.”
He was promptly obeyed by the two boys who had remained standing. They
seated themselves opposite him. Then he dipped into the pan and picked
out the largest of the nuggets of pure gold and offered it to the Kid.
“That’s for your Mum,” he said quietly. “It’s pure gold, same as the
woman she is. Here,” he went on, quickly selecting the next biggest.
“That’s yours Kid— by right.”
Then he passed one each to the two boys and Mary Justicia, and finally
shot the remainder of the precious wash-up into the bag that had covered
the pan and held it out to the Kid.
“There it is,” he cried. “Take it. It’s for you, an’ all those folk
belonging to you. It’s just a kind of sample of the thing that’s yours,
an’ is going to be yours. Guess old Perse, here, was right. It’s the
gold from Caribou, an’ right out of your dead father’s ‘strike’— which
is for you, Kid. Say, you’re a rich woman, for the best claim on it is
yours, an’ it’s the richest ‘strike’ I’ve ever nosed out. Richer even
than Chilcoot’s Eighty-Mile.”
* * * * *
The party was over. The journey back to the homestead was completed. The
full moon had smiled frigidly down upon a scene of such excitement as
was rare enough in her northern domain. Maybe the sight of the thing she
had witnessed had offended her. Perhaps, with her wealth of cold
experience, she condemned the humanness of the thing she had gazed upon.
For on the journey home she had refused the beneficence of her pale
smile, and had hidden her face amidst those night shadows which she had
forthwith summoned to her domain.
But her displeasure had in nowise concerned. A landmark in life had been
set up, a radiant beacon which would shine in the minds of each and
every one of these children of the North so long as memory remained to
them.
Somehow the order of return home to the homestead had become changed.
Neither Wilder nor the Kid realised the thing that had taken place until
it had been accomplished. It seemed likely that it was the deliberate
work of Chilcoot, who, for all his roughness, was not without a world of
kindly sentiment somewhere stowed away deep down in his heart. Perhaps
it had been the arrangement of the less demonstrative Mary Justicia, who
was so nearly approaching her own years of womanhood. However it had
come to pass Chilcoot had carried off the bulk of the visitors, with
Mary and Perse and Clarence for his freight, leaving Bill and the Kid to
their own company in following his lead.
It was the ultimate crowning of the night’s episodes for the Kid. Bill
had demanded that she become his passenger; that the sole work of
paddling should be his. And he had had his way. The Kid was in the mood
for yielding to his lightest wish. If he had desired to walk to the
homestead she would not have demurred. So she lounged on skin rugs
amidships in the little canoe, with her shoulders propped against the
forward strut, and yielded herself to the delight with which the talk
and presence of this great, strong, youthful man filled her. The shadow
of Usak still haunted her silent moments, but even that, in this
wonderful presence, had less power to disturb.
The impulse of the man had been to abandon all caution, and bask in the
delight and happiness with which this child of nature filled him. Her
beauty and sweet womanhood compelled him utterly, while her innocence
was beyond words in the sense of tender responsibility it inspired in
him. He loved her with all the strength of his own simple being. And the
sordid world in which he dwelt so long only the more surely left him
headlong in his great desire.
But out of his wisdom he restrained the impulse. Time was with him and
he feared to frighten her. He realised that for all her courage, for all
her wonderful spirit in the fierce northern battle, the woman’s crown of
life must be as yet something little more than a hazy vision, a nebulous
thing whose reality would only come to her, stealing softly upon her as
the budding soul expanded. Yes, he could afford to wait. And so he held
guard over himself, and the journey was made while he told her all those
details of the thing that had brought him to Caribou.
His mind was very clear on the things he desired to tell, and the things
he did not. And he confined himself to a sufficient outline of the
reasons of the thing he was doing with his discovery on Caribou, and the
things he contemplated before the opening after the coming winter.
The journey down the river sufficed for this outline of his purpose, and
the distance was covered almost before they were aware of it. At the
landing they looked for the others. But they only discovered Chilcoot’s
empty boat, which left them no alternative but to walk up to the
homestead.
As they approached the clearing the girl held out a hand. “Will I take
that—bag?” she asked. “I—I’d like to show it to Mum with my own hands.
You know, Bill, I can’t get it all yet. All it means. It’s a sort of
dream yet, an’ all the time I sort of feel I’ll wake right up an’ set
out for Placer to make our winter trade.”
She laughed. But her laugh was cut short. And as the man passed her the
bag of dust he had been carrying a spasm of renewed fear gripped her.
“Yes. I’d forgotten,” she went on. “I’d forgotten Usak. This thing’s
kind of beaten everything out of my fool head. You’re going to tell him,
Bill? When?” They had reached the clearing and halted a few yards from
the home the Kid had always known. The sound of voices came to them from
within. There was laughter and excitement reigning, when, usually, the
whole household should have been wrapped in slumber.
“Right away. Maybe to-morrow.”
Bill stood before her silhouetted against the lamplight shining through
the cotton-covered window of the kitchen-place. There was something
comforting in the man’s bulk, and in the strong tones of his voice. The
Kid’s fears relaxed, but anxiety was still hers.
“Say, little gal,” he went on at once, in that tender fashion he had
come to use in his talk with her. “That feller’s got you scared.” He
laughed. “I guess he’s the only thing to scare you in this queer
territory. But he doesn’t scare me a thing. I’ve got him beat all the
while—when it comes to a show-down.”
“Maybe you have in a—show-down.”
The man shook his head.
“I get your meaning,” he said. “But don’t worry.”
“But I do. I can’t help it.” The Kid’s tone was a little desperate. “You
see, I know Usak. I’ve known him all my life. He threatened your life to
me the night he found you on the river. I jumped in on him and beat that
talk out of him. But—you see, he reckons you’re out to steal our land,
our river, our—gold. It’s the last that scares me. If he knows the
stuff’s found, and unless he knows right away the big things you’re
doing—Don’t you see? Oh, I’m scared for you, Bill. Usak’s crazy mad if
he thinks folk are going to hurt me. You’ll tell him quick, won’t you? I
won’t sleep till I’m—sure. You see, if a thing happened to you—”
“Nothing’s goin’ to happen, little Kid. I sure promise you.”
The man’s words came deep, and low, and thrilling with something he
could not keep out of them. It was the girl’s unfeigned solicitude that
stirred him. And again the old headlong impulse was striving to gain the
upper hand. He resisted it, as he had resisted it before.
But this time he sought the coward’s refuge. He reached out a hand and
laid it gently on the girl’s soft shoulder.
“Come right in, an’—show your Mum,” he said. “Hark at ’em. That’s Perse.
I’d know his laugh in a thousand. Say, we’re missing all sorts of a
time.”
* * * * *
The two men were back at their camp. They were seated over the remains
of their generous camp fire. It had sadly fallen from its great estate.
It was no longer a prodigal expression of their hospitality, but a mere,
ruddy heap of hot cinders with a wisp of smoke rising out of its glowing
heart. Still, however, it yielded a welcome temperature to the bitter
chill of the now frowning night.
Chilcoot remained faithful to his up-turned camp kettle, but Bill
concerned himself with no such luxury. He was squatting Indian-fashion
on his haunches, with his hands clasped about his knees. It was a moment
of deep contemplation before seeking their blankets, and both were
smoking.
It was the older man who broke the long silence. He was in a mood to
talk, for the events of the night had stirred him even more deeply than
he knew.
“They felt mighty good,” he observed contentedly. “Them queer bits o’
life.”
His gaze remained on the heart of the fire for his words were in the
manner of a thought spoken aloud.
Bill nodded.
“Pore kids,” he said.
In a moment the older man’s eyes were turned upon him, and their smiling
depths were full of amiable derision.
“Pore?” he exclaimed. Then his hands were outspread in an expressive
gesture. “Say, you’ve handed ’em a prize-packet that needs to cut that
darn word right out of your talk.”
He looked for reply to his challenge, but none was forthcoming. And he
returned again to his happy contemplation of the fire.
Bill smoked on. But somehow there was none of the other’s easy
contentment in his enjoyment. He was smoking rapidly, in the manner of a
mind that was restless, of a thought unpleasantly pre-occupied. The
expression of his eyes, too, was entirely different. They were plainly
alert, and a light pucker of concentration had drawn his even brows
together. He seemed to be listening. Nor was his listening for the sound
of his companion’s voice.
At long last Chilcoot bestirred himself and knocked out his pipe, and
his eyes again sought his silent partner.
“The blankets fer me,” he said, and rose to his feet. He laughed
quietly. “I’ll sure dream of kids an’ things all mussed up with fool men
who don’t know better.”
“Sure.” Bill nodded without turning. Then he added: “You best make ’em.
I’ll sit awhile.”
Chilcoot’s gaze sharpened as he contemplated the squatting figure.
“Kind o’ feel like thinkin’ some?” he observed shrewdly.
“Maybe.”
The older man grinned.
“She’d take most boys o’ your years—thinkin’!”
“Ye—es.”
Bill had turned, and was gazing up into the other’s smiling face. But
there was no invitation to continue the talk in his regard. On the
contrary. And Chilcoot’s smile passed abruptly.
“Guess I’ll beat it,” he said a little hurriedly. And the sitting man
made no attempt to detain him.
* * * * *
The man at the fire was no longer gazing into it. He was peering out
into the dark of the night. Furthermore he was no longer squatting on
his haunches. He had shifted his position, lying on his side so that his
range of vision avoided the fire-light as he searched in the direction
of the water’s edge below him. His heavy pea-jacket had been unfastened,
and his right hand was thrust deep in its pocket.
The fire had been replenished and raked together. It was burning
merrily, as though the man before it contemplated a prolonged vigil. The
night sounds were few enough just now in the northern wilderness. The
flies and mosquitoes were no longer the burden they were in summer. The
frigid night seemed to have silenced their hum, as it had silenced most
other sounds. The voice of the sluggish river alone went on with that
soothing monotony which would continue until the final freeze-up.
But Wilder was alert in every fibre. He had reason to be. For all the
silence he knew there was movement going on. Secret movement which would
have to be dealt with before the night was out. His ears had long since
detected it. They had detected it on the river, both going down and
returning. And imagination had supplied interpretation. Now he was
awaiting that development he felt would surely come.
He had not long to wait. A sound of moccasined feet padding over the
loose gravel of the river bed suddenly developed. It was approaching
him. And he strained in the darkness for a vision of his visitor. After
awhile a shadowy outline took definite shape. It was of the tall, burly
figure of a man coming up from the water’s edge.
He came rapidly, and without a word he took his place at the opposite
side of the fire.
Bill made no move. He offered no greeting. He understood. It was the
thing he had looked for and prepared for. It was Usak. And he watched
the Indian as he laid his long rifle across his knees, and held out his
hands to the crackling blaze.
The Indian seemed in no way concerned with the coolness of his
reception. It was almost as if his actions were an expression of the
thing he considered his simple right. And having taken up his position
he returned the silent scrutiny of his host with eyes so narrowed that
they revealed nothing but the fierce gleam of the firelight they
reflected.
He leant forward and deliberately spat into the fire. Then the sound of
his voice came, and his eyes widened till their coal black depths
revealed something of the savage mood that lay behind them.
“I see him, all thing this night,” he said. “So I come. I, Usak, say him
this thing. I tell ’em all peoples white-mans no good. Whitemans steal
’em all thing. White-mans him look, look all time. Him look on the face
of white girl. Him talk plenty much. Him show her much thing. Gold? Yes.
Him buy her, this whiteman. Him buy her with gold which he steal from
her land.”
He raised one lean brown hand and thrust up three fingers.
“I tak him this gun,” he went on fiercely. “Him ready to my eye.
One—two—three time I so stand. You dead all time so I mak him. Now I say
you go. One day. You not go? Then I mak ’em so kill quick.”
Wilder moved. But it was only to withdraw his hand from the pocket of
his pea-jacket. He was grasping an automatic pistol of heavy calibre. He
drew up a knee in his lolling position, and rested hand and weapon upon
it. The muzzle was deliberately covering the broad bosom of the man
beyond the fire, and his finger was ready to compress on the instant.
“That’s all right, Usak,” he said calmly. “What are we going to do? Talk
or—shoot?” His eyes smiled in the calm fashion out of which he was
rarely disturbed. “I’m no Euralian man to leave you with the drop on
me.”
The final thrust was not without effect. For an instant the Indian’s
eyes widened further. Then they narrowed suddenly to the cat-like
watchfulness his manner so much resembled.
“We talk,” he said, after a brief conflict with his angry mood, his gaze
on the ready automatic whose presence and whose offence he fully
appreciated.
Bill nodded.
“That’s better,” he said. Then he went on after a pause. “Say boy, if
you’d been a whiteman I’d have shot you in your darn tracks for the
thing you just said, and the thing you kind of hinted at. I had you
covered right away as you came along up. But you’re an Indian. An’ more
than that you belong to Marty Le Gros’ lone Kid. You’ve raised her, an’
acted father an’ mother to her, an’ you guess the sun just rises an’
sets in her. I’m glad. An’ I’m glad ther’ isn’t to be any fool
shooting—yet. But, anyway, when ther’ is I want you to get a grip on
this. I’m right in the business, an’ I’ve got your darn ole gun a mile
beaten. I guess that makes things clear some, an’ we can get busy with
our talk.”
The Indian made no reply, but there was a flicker of the eyelid, and an
added sparkle in the man’s eyes as he listened to the whiteman’s
scathing words.
Bill suddenly sat up and clasped his hands about his knees while the
automatic pistol was thrust even more prominently.
“Here, Usak,” he went on, in the same quiet fashion, but with a note of
conciliation in his tone. “You’re guessing all sorts of fool Indian
things about that gal coming along up here to my camp. You talk of
buying her with the gold I’ve stolen from her. If you’d been the man you
guess you are you’d have got around, and sat in an’ heard all the talk
of the whole thing. But you’re an Indian man, a low grade boy that
guesses to steal around on the end of a gun, ready to play any dirty old
game. No. Keep cool till I’ve done.”
Wilder’s gun was raised ever so slightly, and he waited while the
leaping wrath of the Indian subsided. He nodded.
“That’s better,” he went on quickly. “You got to listen till I’m done.
I’m goin’ to tell you things, not because I’m scared a cent of you, but
because you’ve been good to the Kid, and you’re loyal, an’ maybe someday
you’re going to feel that way to me. See? But right away I want you to
get this into your fool head. I came along for two reasons to Caribou.
One was to locate Marty Le Gros’ gold, an’ pass it over to the gal who
belongs to it, an’ the other was to marry Felice Le Gros, the same as
her father married her mother, an’ you, I guess, in your own fashion,
married Pri-loo, who the Euralians killed for you. Now you get that? I
don’t want the Kid’s gold, or land, or farm. They cut no ice with me.
I’m so rich I hate the sight of gold. But I want the Kid. I want to
marry her and take her right away where the sun shines and the world’s
worth living in. Where she won’t need to worry for food or trade, an’
won’t need to wear reindeer buckskin all the time. And anyway won’t have
to live the life of a white-Indian.”
The keen gaze of the whiteman held the Indian fast. There was no smile
in his eyes. But there was infinite command and frank honesty. Usak
stirred uneasily. It was an expression of the reaction taking place in
him.
“Him marry my good boss, Kid?”
The savage had gone out of the man’s tone. The narrowed eyes had
widened, and a curious shining light filled them.
“You give him all him gold? The gold of my good boss, Marty?” he went
on, as though striving for conviction that he had heard aright. “Sure?
You mak him this? You not mak back to Placer wher’ all him white-woman
live? You want only him Kid, same lak Usak want him Pri-loo all time?
Only him Kid? Yes?”
Bill nodded with a dawning smile.
“You big man all much gold?” the Indian went on urgently. “You not mak
want him gold of the good boss, Marty?”
Bill shook his head and his smile deepened.
“Guess I just want the—Kid,” he said.
The Indian moved. He laid his rifle aside as though it had suddenly
become a hateful thing he desired to spurn. Then he reached out,
thrusting a hand across the fire to grip that of the whiteman.
But no response was forthcoming. Bill remained motionless with his hands
about his knees and his weapon thrusting. Usak waited a moment. Then his
hand was sharply withdrawn. His quick intelligence was swift to realise
the deliberate slight. But that which the crude savage in him had no
power to do was to remain silent.
“You not shake by the hand?” he said doubtfully. “You say all ’em good
thing by the Kid? It all mush good. Oh, yes. Yet you—” He broke off and
a great light of passion suddenly leapt to his black eyes. “Tcha!” he
cried. “What is it this? The tongue speak an’ him heart think mush. No,
no!” he went on with growing ferocity. “The good boss, Marty, say heap
plenty. Him tell ’em Indian man all time. Him whitemans no shake, then
him not mean the thing him tongue say.”
“You’re dead wrong, Usak. Plumb wrong. That’s not the reason I don’t
guess to grip your hand.”
Bill’s gaze was compelling. There was that in it which denied the
other’s accusations in a fashion that even the mind of the savage could
not fail to interpret.
The anger in the Indian’s eyes died down.
“Indian man’s hand good so as the white man,” he said. “Yet him not
shake so this thing is mush good. This Kid. Him mak wife to you. You
give her all thing good plenty. So. That thing you say big. Usak give
her all, too. Usak think lak she is the child of Pri-loo. Usak love him
good boss, Marty, her father. Oh, yes. All time plenty. Usak fight,
kill. All him life no thing so him Kid only know good.”
Bill inclined his head. The man was speaking out of the depth of his
fierce heart, and he warmed to the simple sturdiness of his graphic
pleading.
“I know all that,” he said.
“Then—?”
The Indian’s hand was slowly, almost timidly thrust towards him again.
But the movement remained uncompleted.
“Usak,” Bill began deliberately, and in the tone of a purpose arrived
at. “I know you for the good feller you’ve been to all these folk. I
know you better than I guess even they know you. I guess it don’t take
me figgering to know if I’d hurt a soul of them you’d never quit till
you’d shot me to pieces. I know all that. Let it go at that. A whiteman
grips the other feller by the hand when he knows the things back of that
other feller’s mind. Do you get that? Ther’s a mighty big stain of blood
on the hand you’re askin’ me to grip, an’ I’m not yearning to shake the
hand of a—murderer.”
The men were gazing eye to eye. The calm cold of Wilder’s grey eyes was
inflexible. The Indian’s had lit with renewed fire. But his resentment,
the burning fires of his savage bosom were no match for the whiteman’s
almost mesmeric power. The gaze of the black eyes wavered. Their lids
slowly drooped, as though the search of the other’s was reading him
through and through and he desired to avoid them.
“Well?”
The whiteman’s challenge came with patient determination.
The Indian drew a deep breath. Then he nodded slowly.
“I tell him all thing,” he said simply.
“Good.”
Wilder released his knees and spread himself out on the ground, and
almost ostentatiously returned his pistol to his pocket.
“Go ahead,” he said, as he propped himself on his elbow.
Usak talked at long length in his queer, broken fashion. His mind was
flung back to those far-off years when the great avenging madness had
taken possession of him. He told the story of Marty Le Gros from its
beginning. He told the story of the man’s great hopes and strivings for
the Eskimo he looked upon as children. He told of the birth of the Kid,
and the ultimate death of the missionary’s wife. Then had come the time
of his boss’s gold “strike,” the whereabouts of which he kept secret
even from him, Usak. Then came the time of the murderous descent of the
Euralians, and the killing and burning that accompanied it. And how he
had returned to the Mission to find the dead remains of Pri-loo his
wife, and of his good boss, Marty, and the living child flung into the
wood which sheltered its home.
He told how he went mad with desire to kill, and set out to wreak his
vengeance. He had long since by chance discovered where these people hid
themselves in the far-off mountains, and he went there, and waited until
they returned from their war trail.
Now for the first time Wilder learned all the intimate details of the
terrible slaughter which this single savage had contrived to inflict.
Nor did the horror of the story lose in the man’s telling. He missed
nothing of it, seeming to revel in a riot of furious memory. Once or
twice, as he gloated over the fall of an enemy, he reached out, and his
lean hand patted the butt of his queer old rifle almost lovingly. And
with the final account of his struggle with the leader himself, even
Wilder shrank before the merciless joy the man displayed as he
contemplated the end of the battle with the man’s sockets emptied of the
tawny eyes that had gazed upon the murder of those poor, defenceless
creatures the Indian had been powerless to protect.
“Oh, yes,” he said in conclusion. “Him see nothing more, never. Him have
no eyes never no more. Him live, yes. I leave him woman. So I go. So I
come back. I come back to the little Kid, him good boss, Marty, leave. I
live. Oh, yes. I live for him Kid. I mak big work for him Kid. Big
trade. So him grow lak the tree, him flower, an’ I think much for him.
It all good. It mak me feel good all inside. Him to me lak the child of
Pri-loo. You marry him Kid? Good. You give him gold? Good. Usak plenty
happy. Now I mak him one big trip. Then no more. Then I do so as the
good whiteman of him Kid say. Yes.”
The Indian spread out his hands in a final gesture. Then he drew up his
knees, and clasped them tightly, while his burning eyes dwelt broodingly
upon the leaping fire.
“Why this trip?” Bill’s question came sharply.
The Indian raised his eyes. Then they dropped again to the fire and he
shook his head.
“You won’t tell me? Why?” Bill demanded again. “Ther’s no need for any
trip. Ther’s work right here for you, for all. Ther’s gold, plenty,
which you can share. Why?”
Again came the Indian’s shake of the head. His eyes were raised again
for a moment and Bill read and interpreted the brooding light that gazed
out of them. The man seemed about to speak, but his hard mouth tightened
visibly, and again he stubbornly shook his head and returned to his
contemplation of the fire.
Suddenly Bill sprang to his feet and held out his hand. In an instant
the Indian was on his feet, and his dark face was even smiling. His
tenacious hand closed over that of the whiteman.
“That’s all right, Usak,” Bill said quietly. “I’m glad to take your
hand. You’re a big man. You’re a big Indian savage. But you’re a good
man, anyway. Get right back to your shanty now, an’ take that darn old
gun with you. You don’t need that fer shooting me up, anyway. Just keep
it—to guard the Kid, and those others. Just one word before you go.
Marty kept his gold secret. You keep it secret, too, until the Kid lets
you speak. I’ve got to make a big trip to secure the claims before we
can talk. When I done that talk don’t matter. Say, an’ not a word to the
Kid of our talk. Not one word. I want to marry her. And being white folk
it’s our way to ask the girl first. See? I haven’t asked her yet. An’ if
you were to boost in your spoke, maybe she’d get angry, and—”
“Usak savee.”
The Indian was grinning in a fashion that left the whiteman satisfied.
Their hands fell apart, and Usak picked up his gun. Then he turned away
without another word and the night swallowed him up.
Wilder stood gazing after him, There was no smile in his eyes. He was
thinking hard. And his thought was of that one, big, last trip the
Indian had threatened to make.