VISITORS TO FRENCH RIVER
Old Noel Sabattis talked more like a Frenchman than the kind of
Indian you read about. He wasn’t reticent. Perhaps he had a thin
strain of French blood in him, from away back, long ago forgotten.
He called himself pure Maliseet. His vocabulary was limited but he
made it cover the ground. Sometimes he grunted in the approved
Indian manner but he could say as much with a grunt as most men can
with six words. His heart was in it; and with grunts and blinks of
the eye and his limited vocabulary he told Ben O’Dell and Jim
McAllister all that he knew about poor Sherwood.
Noel was a lonely man. He had been a widower for close upon thirty
years. His children had grown up and gone to the settlements a
lifetime ago. But he had refused to go to any settlement. He had
left his old trapping and hunting grounds on the Tobigue and come on
to French River about ten years ago. He found Sherwood and Julie and
their baby on the river in the big log house that had been Louis
Balenger’s. They were the only regular settlers on the stream but
there was a big camp belonging to a fishing club five miles farther
up.
Julie Sherwood was a fine little woman though she was Balenger’s
daughter, and prettier than you had any right to expect to see
anywhere. Sherwood was quite a man when she was close to him; but
even then Noel thought that he wasn’t all he might have been. He had
a weak eye—honest enough, but weak; and whenever his wife was out of
his sight he was like a scared buck, ready to jump at a shadow. But
he was kind and generous and Noel liked him. Julie was generous and
friendly, too. They offered Noel as much room as he needed in their
house and a place at their table; but Noel was an independent fellow
and said that he’d have a roof of his own. He set to work at
chopping out a clearing within a few hundred yards of Sherwood’s
clearing, and Sherwood helped him.
It wasn’t long before Noel Sabattis knew a great deal about Dick
Sherwood and, naturally, about the Balengers. Both the man and the
woman talked to him as if they trusted him; but she was the more
confiding of the two. It was she who told of Sherwood’s treatment at
the hands of her father and her older sister. She was bitter against
both her father and her sister, but she made the bitterest
accusations when her husband was not within earshot, for they would
have humiliated him. And he was already too humble and she was
giving all her thought and love to awakening his old self-respect in
his heart.
She told Noel that her father had impoverished Sherwood years ago,
when she was a child of ten or eleven, by cheating at cards, and
then had tricked him into his debt and his power by further
cheating—and all under the guise of friendship and good-fellowship.
Her mother had told her so in a deathbed confession. Then her father
had tried to make a rogue of Sherwood. He had succeeded temporarily,
but with such difficulty and by means of such cruel efforts that he
had made a coward of him. Yes, a coward—and that was worse than all
the rest, it had seemed to Julie. She told the Maliseet that he,
Richard Sherwood, who had been a soldier, had no courage now except
what he got from her.
Noel used to advise them to leave French River. He put it strong, in
spite of the fact that he would have been desolate if they had gone.
Julie said they were planning to go to the settlements as soon as
the baby was big enough to travel and Sherwood agreed with her. Noel
suggested that Louis Balenger might come back and pump two more
bullets into Sherwood. At that the big, broken Englishman paled
under his tan but the woman didn’t flinch. She said that her father
would never return but that she was not afraid of him anyway.
Noel and the Sherwoods lived peacefully in their adjoining clearings
year after year. Noel and Sherwood trapped fur together; but
Sherwood never went very far afield. His mind and nerves went
“jumpy” whenever he got more than a few miles away from his wife and
child. As the years passed he seemed normal enough when with them,
more nearly a sound man each year; but once out of sight of them his
eyes showed fear.
Noel often tried to argue him out of his fear. When a young man and
a soldier he had not been afraid of hurts or life or death, so why
be a coward now, Noel argued. His old enemy Balenger was gone, so
what was he afraid of? He had broken game laws and stolen furs from
other men’s traps and even acted as Balenger’s tool once in the
matter of a “rigged” game of poker down in Woodstock—but he was
living as honestly now as any man and had the best wife and daughter
in the province. So why continue to be ashamed and afraid? He was
his own master now. He had education and strong muscles. Why didn’t
he go away to the settlements with Julie and the child and forget
all about French River? He owed it to himself and those two, Noel
argued; and if he’d only forget Louis Balenger he’d be as good a man
as he’d ever been.
Strange to say, Julie did not back Noel Sabattis as strongly as she
should have in his efforts to get her husband to leave the scene of
his disgrace. She, brave as a tiger in her attitude toward every
known peril and ready to give her life for either her husband or
child, was afraid of the unknown. She was afraid of the world of
cities and men beyond the wilderness. Her parents had brought her to
French River when she was scarcely more than a baby but she had
fragmentary memories of streets of high houses and wet pavements
shining under yellow lamps and her mother in tears and a stealthy
flight. Even her father, clever and daring and wicked, had been
forced to flee in fear from a city! How then would Dick Sherwood
fare among men? Her fear of cities haunted her like a
half-remembered nightmare.
Julie said that they would leave French River in a year or two—and
always it was put off another year or two.
Julie died very suddenly of a deadly cold. She was ill for only two
days. It shook old Noel Sabattis even now to think of it. Sherwood
was like a man without a mind for weeks. He moved about, sometimes
he ate food that was placed before him, but he seemed to be without
life. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t believe his wife was gone.
Realization of his loss came to him suddenly; and Noel had to strike
him, club him, to save him from self-destruction.
Sherwood’s courage was all gone after that. Without Julie he knew
that he was good for nothing and afraid of everything. Because he
was worthless and a coward Julie had died. A doctor could have saved
her and if he had lived in the settlements she could have had a
doctor.
A year passed and Noel tried to arouse Sherwood. There was still the
little girl to think of. Why didn’t Sherwood get out with the girl
and work among men and make a home for her? What right had he to
keep her in the woods on French River? But Sherwood was hopeless. He
knew himself for a failure. He had failed in the woods in the best
years of his life, and he knew that he would fail in the
settlements. He had thought it over a thousand times. Failure
outside, among strangers, would make the future terrible for the
child. What could he do in towns or cities now, he who clung to an
old Indian and a little girl for courage to live from day to day?
Strangers? He would not dare look a stranger in the face!
But Marion might sicken suddenly as her mother had and die for the
need of a doctor! Then he would be guilty of her death, as he was
already guilty of Julie’s death—because he was weak as water and a
coward! Noel was right. He would take the girl away. He would take
her downriver. He would forget the few poor shreds of pride left to
him and ask the O’Dells to help her and him. He would go soon,
sometime during the summer, before winter at the latest.
Then Louis Balenger came back to French River, all alone, and gave
Sherwood the glad hand and Noel a cigar and little Marion a gold
ring from his finger. He and Sherwood talked for hours that night
after Noel had returned to his own cabin. Sherwood told Noel about
it in the morning, early, while Balenger still slept. Balenger had
offered Sherwood a job in a big city, a job in his own business, a
partnership—and comfort and education and security for the little
girl. But Sherwood knew that Balenger was lying—that there would be
no security with him—that the business was trickery of some sort and
that a weak and cowardly tool was required in it. And Noel, who had
looked keenly into Balenger’s eyes at the moment of their meeting,
knew that Sherwood was right.
Sherwood took his daughter fishing up Kettle Brook and told Noel not
to let Balenger know where he was. He was pitifully shaken. Noel
kept away from the other clearing all morning. He went away back
with his ax, hunting for bark with which to patch his canoe. He was
in no hurry to see more of Balenger; but he went to face him at
noon. There was no sign of the visitor in or around the house. He
went to the top of the bank and saw the red pirogue grounded on the
narrow lip of mud, half hidden from him by the over-hanging brush.
But he saw that there was something in the pirogue. He went down the
narrow path and looked closer—and there lay Louis Balenger in the
pirogue, dead! He had a bullet hole in him. He had been shot through
the heart.
Sherwood and the little girl came home before sundown with a fine
string of trout. Noel met them at their own door, cleaned the trout,
then led the father away while the daughter set to work to fry the
fish for supper. He told Sherwood what had happened and Sherwood was
dumbfounded. He could see that Sherwood had not done the shooting.
For that matter, the distracted fellow had not taken his rifle up
the brook with him.
Noel showed the body—where he had hidden it in the bushes. He took
Sherwood to the pirogue and showed him faint stains in it. He had
tried to wash away the stains but with only partial success.
Sherwood spoke then in a whisper, trembling all over. He said that
he didn’t do it but that he had planned to tell Balenger to get out
that night and shoot him if he refused to go. Then he grabbed Noel
by the arm and accused him of killing Balenger. His eyes were wild,
but old Noel kept cool. Old Noel said that he knew nothing of the
shooting, that neither of them had done the thing and that the woods
were wide open. Sherwood didn’t care who had pulled the trigger. It
was all up with him, whoever the murderer was! His only chance was
to run and run quick. Every one knew what was between him and Louis
Balenger and he would be hanged for a murderer if he was caught. And
what would become of Marion then?
Noel had a difficult time with Sherwood, who was mad with terror for
a few minutes, but he calmed him at last sufficiently to take him
back to the house. Sherwood ate his supper in a quivering silence.
When the little girl kissed him he burst into tears. As soon as
Marion was asleep Noel and Sherwood dug a grave and buried Balenger.
Sherwood worked like a tiger. His mood had changed. He was defiant.
The law would never catch him to misjudge him! Fate and the world
were all against him now but he would fool them! Nothing would hurt
his little daughter while he was alive—and he intended to live!
He would take Marion to the O’Dells and make his way into the States
and get work where no one knew he was a failure or had ever been a
coward. For he was not a coward now, by Heaven! He feared nothing
but the hangman. Fate had hit him just once too often, kicked him
when he was down and tried to crush his little girl. But he would
outwit fate!
They returned to the cabin. Sherwood’s eyes gleamed in the lamplight
and his face was flushed. He wrote a note, telling Noel it was for
Mrs. O’Dell, the widow of his old friend. He packed a bag, his gun
and a bed roll, muttering to himself all the while. Then he went
outside and looked up at the summer stars and laughed. Noel was
frightened. Sherwood walked about the clearing for a few minutes,
stumbling over stones and bumping against stumps and muttering like
a crazy man. He quieted down and Noel got him into the house and
onto his bed. He was limp as a rag by that time. Noel brewed tea for
him, which he drank. He fell asleep; but he didn’t get much rest,
for he twitched and muttered and jumped in his sleep all night. Noel
spent the night on the floor beside Sherwood’s bed, wide awake.
Sherwood looked much as usual next morning, except for his eyes.
There was something more than fear in his eyes, something Noel
couldn’t find a name for. And he wouldn’t talk, beyond telling the
little girl that they were going away and what she was to do with
the letter which he gave her. She kissed him and asked no questions
but her eyes filled with tears. Noel tried to turn him, to change
his mind about running away, pointing out that if he left French
River now the law would be sure that he was guilty of his enemy’s
death.
It was useless, even dangerous, to argue, for he turned on the old
Maliseet for an instant with a look in his eyes that shook even that
tough heart. Noel was wise enough to understand that misfortune had
at last goaded Sherwood beyond endurance, that it was useless to
reason, now that all control was gone with one who had never
listened to reasoning even under the most favorable circumstances.
Sherwood put his dunnage into the pirogue. The faint stains were
well forward and he covered them with ferns and stowed the dunnage
over all. He placed the little girl amidships, tenderly. She was an
expert canoeman but he placed her as carefully as if she were still
a babe in arms. Then he paddled downstream in the big pirogue
without so much as a backward glance at his friend, old Noel
Sabattis.
Noel gave the pirogue a start to the first bend in the stream, then
launched his old bark canoe and gave cautious chase. He was afraid
of that poor, broken, weak, cowardly, crazy Dick Sherwood. Crazy,
that was right! That’s why he suddenly felt afraid of him.
Noel had to paddle hard to catch sight of the pirogue before it
turned into the main river. He kept close inshore, glimpsing the
pirogue every now and again without showing himself in return. He
saw Sherwood and the child disembark at the head of the rapids and
make a line fast to the stern of the big dugout and drop it slowly
down through the white and black water. That eased his anxiety
considerably, for he saw that Sherwood was sane in his care of
little Marion, at least. Had he been mad in every respect he would
have run the rapids or made a try at it.
Noel carried his canoe around to the pool below; when he next caught
sight of the big pirogue he was astonished to see that the little
girl was in the stern, paddling steadily and easily and that
Sherwood had vanished. Perhaps Sherwood had taken to the woods in a
spasm of terror or perhaps he was still in the pirogue, lying low.
Noel continued to follow cautiously. He saw nothing more of
Sherwood. He saw Marion rest and drift. He saw her eat. Once she ran
the bow of the pirogue against the beach and remained there for more
than an hour, seated motionless, save for slow turning of her head,
as if she listened and watched for something or some one. At last
she continued her journey and Noel followed again. He felt quite
sure that Sherwood had taken to the woods. Mad!
When within five or six miles of O’Dell’s Point Noel turned and
headed upstream for home. He knew that there was no dangerous water
between Marion and the Point and that she would reach safe landing
soon after sundown. He got back to French River next day.
That was his story. It was the story he had told to the deputy
sheriff and Mel Lunt, though he had not given those worthies so
detailed a version of it.
“Are you the only settler on the river?” asked Ben.
“Only one left,” replied Noel.
“But don’t strangers come here sometimes, sportsmen and that sort of
thing?”
“Yes—but the sports who fish dis river don’t come dis summer. But I
see one stranger. I tell Sherwood ’bout dat feller, but he don’t
care. He too crazy. I tell Lunt ’bout ’im too an’ Lunt call me a
liar.”
“What about the stranger?” asked McAllister. “Suspicious-looking
character was he, or what?”
“Dat right. He come onto dis clearin’ one day, sudden, an’ look
t’rough dat door at me an’ say ‘Hullo, frien’, you know good feller
’round here somewheres name of Louis Balenger, hey, what?’ ‘Nope,
don’t never see Balenger,’ I tell dat man. ‘Balenger go off dis
river ten-twelve year ago an’ don’t come back. You his brodder,
maybe, hey?’ ‘Brodder be tam!’ dat stranger say. ‘Do bizness wid him
one time. Got somet’ing for him, but it don’t matter. Good day.’ Den
he walk off quick, dat stranger, an’ I don’t foller him, no. He
smile kinder nasty at me, wid two-t’ree gold tooth, so I t’ink maybe
Noel Sabattis may’s well go right on wid cookin’ his little dinner.
Don’t see dat stranger no more.”
“When was that?” asked Ben.
“When dat feller come ’round? Four-five day afore Louis Balenger
come back, maybe.”
“_Before_ he came back? Did you tell him about it?”
“Tell Balenger? Nope. Don’t tell Balenger not’ing. Don’t like dat
feller Balenger, me.”
“And the stranger went away? He didn’t wait for Balenger?”
“Dat right. Don’t see ’im, anyhow. Don’t see no canoe, don’t smell
no smoke.”
“Perhaps he hid and waited for him. Perhaps he did the shooting!”
“P’r’aps. Dat what I tell Sherwood—but he don’t listen. He don’t
care. He don’t git it, Sherwood. Too scairt. Too crazy. Tell Lunt
’bout how maybe dat stranger shoot Balenger, too. Dat when he call
me a liar.”
Noel showed his visitors the exact spot in which the big pirogue had
lain when Balenger had been found dead in it and explained its
position and that of Balenger’s body.
Ben took a stroll by himself, leaving his uncle and the old Maliseet
smoking and yarning. He walked up and down the river along the
narrow strip of shore under the bank, a few hundred yards each way,
trying to picture the shooting of Louis Balenger. Then he walked up
and down along the top of the bank, sometimes at the edge of the
tangle of trees and brush and sometimes in it, still trying to make
a picture in his mind. He busied himself in this way until supper
time.
Ben took to his blankets early that night and was up with the first
silver lift of dawn. He left the cabin without waking the others,
hurried down to the edge of the river, got out of his shirt and
trousers and moccasins almost as quickly as it can be said and
plunged into the cool, dark water. He swam down with the current a
short way, out in midstream, then turned and breasted the smooth,
strong river. There was gold in the east now but the shadows were
deep under the wooded banks. Fish rose, breaking the surface of the
water into flowing circles that widened and vanished. Birds chirped
in the trees. Crows cawed from high roosts. Rose tinged the silver
and gold in the east and the river gleamed. Ben swam slowly, with
long strokes, thrilled with the wonder of the magic of water and
wood and the new day.
Ben landed on the other side of the river in a level wash of
sunshine and flapped his arms and hopped about on a flat rock. In a
minute his blood raced warm again and his skin glowed. He was about
to plunge in again for the swim down and across to Noel’s front when
his attention was attracted to the bank behind and above him by a
swishing and rustling in the brush.