The Hudson Bay Company's buildings at Fort Cheever were built, as is
customary, in the form of a hollow square, with one side open to the
river. The store occupied one side of the square, the warehouse was
opposite, and at the top stood the trader's house in the midst of its
vegetable garden fenced with palings. The old palisade about the place
had long ago disappeared, and nothing military remained except the
flagpole and an ancient little brass cannon at its foot, blackened with
years of verdigris and dirt. The humbler store of the "French outfit"
and the two or three native shacks that completed the settlement lay at
a little distance behind the company buildings, and the whole was
cropped down on a wide, flat esplanade of grass between the steep bare
hills and the river.
To-day at the fort every one was going about his business with an eye
cocked downstream. Every five minutes David Cranston came to the door
of the store for a look, and old Michel Whitebear, hoeing the trader's
garden, rested between every hill of potatoes, to squint his aged eyes
in the same direction. Usually this state of suspense endured for
days, sometimes weeks, but upon this trip the river-gods were
propitious, and at five o'clock the eagerly listened for whistle was
actually heard.
Every soul in the place gathered at the edge of the bank to witness the
arrival. At one side, slightly apart, stood the trader and his family.
David Cranston was a lean, up-standing Scotchman, an imposing physical
specimen with hair and beard beginning to grizzle, and a level, grim,
sad gaze. His wife was a handsome, sullen, dark-browed, half-breed
woman, who, unlike the majority of her sisters, carried her age well.
In his grim sadness and her sullenness was written a domestic tragedy
of long-standing. After all these years she was still a stranger in
her own house, and an alien to her husband and children. Their
children were with them, Mary and six boys ranging from Davy, who was
sixteen, down to the infant Buddha.
A small crowd of natives in ragged store clothes, standing and
squatting on the bank, and spilling over on the beach below, filled the
centre of the picture, and beyond them sat Jack Chanty by himself, on a
box that he had carried to the edge of the bank. Between him and Mary
the bank made in, so that they were fully visible to each other, and
both tinglingly self-conscious. In Jack this took the form of an
elaborately negligent air. He whittled a paddle with nice care,
glancing at Mary from under his lashes. She could not bring herself to
look at him.
While the steamboat was still quarter of a mile downstream, the people
began to sense that there was something more than usual in the wind,
and a great excitement mounted. We of the outside world, with our
telegrams and newspapers and hourly posts, have forgotten what it is to
be dramatically surprised. Where can we get a thrill like to that
which animated these people as the magic word was passed around:
"Passengers!" Presently it could be made out that these were no
ordinary passengers, but a group of well-dressed gentlemen, and
finally, wonder of wonders! what had never been seen at Fort Cheever
before, a white lady--no, two of them!
Mary saw them first, two ladies, corseted, tailored, and marvellously
hatted like the very pictures in the magazines that she had secretly
disbelieved in. In another minute she made out that one of them,
leaning on the upper rail, smiling and chatting vivaciously with her
companions, was as young as Mary herself, and as slender and pretty as
a mundane fairy.
Mary glanced swiftly at Jack. He, too, was looking at the deck of the
steamboat and he had stopped whittling his paddle. A dreadful pang
transfixed Mary's breast. Her hands and feet suddenly became enormous
to her, and her body seemed like a coarse and shapeless lump. She
looked down at her clean, faded print dress; she could have torn it
into ribbons. She looked at her dark-browed mother with eyes full of a
strange, angry despair. The elder woman had by this time seen what was
coming, and her lip curled scornfully. Mary's eyes filled with tears.
She slipped out of the group unseen, and, running back to the house,
cast herself on her bed and wept as she had never wept.
The steamboat was moored alongside the half-submerged barge. She came
to a stop with the group on the upper deck immediately in front of Jack
and a little below him. True to the character of indifference he was
fond of assuming, he went on whittling his paddle. At the same time he
was taking it all in. The sight of people such as his own people, that
he thought he had put behind him forever, raised a queer confusion of
feelings in him. As he covertly watched the dashing, expensive,
imperious little beauty and three men hanging obsequiously on her
words, a certain hard brightness showed briefly in his eyes, and his
lips thinned.
It was as if he said: "Aha! my young lady, I know your kind! None of
you will ever play that game again with me!"
Consequently when her casual glance presently fell on the handsome,
young, rough character (as she would no doubt have called him) it was
met by a glance even more casual. The young man was clearly more
interested in the paddle he was making than in her. Her colour
heightened a little and she turned with an added vivacity to her
companions. After a long time she looked again. The young man was
still intent upon his paddle.
The first to come off the boat was the young purser, who hurried with
the mail and the manifests to David Cranston. He was pale under the
weight of the announcement he bore.
"We have his honour the lieutenant-governor and party on board," he
said breathlessly.
Cranston, because he saw that he was expected to be overcome, remained
grimly unconcerned. "So!" he said coolly.
The youngster stared. "The lieutenant-governor," he repeated
uncertainly. "He's landing here to make some explorations in the
mountains. He joined us without warning at the Crossing. There was no
way to let you know."
"We'll do the best we can for his lordship," said Cranston with an
ironic curl to his grim lips. "I will speak to my wife."
To her he said under his breath, grimly but not unkindly, "Get to the
house, my girl."
She flared up with true savage suddenness. "So, I'm not good enough to
be seen with you," she snarled, taking no pains to lower her voice.
"I'm your lawful wife. These are my children. Are you ashamed of my
colour? You chose me!"
Cranston drew the long breath that calls on patience. "'Tis not your
colour that puts me to shame, but your manners," he said sternly. "And
if they're bad," he added, "it's not for the lack of teaching. Get to
the house!"
She went.
The captain of the steamboat now appeared on the gangplank, ushering an
immaculate little gentleman whose salient features were a Panama hat
above price, a pointed white beard, neat, agile limbs, and a trim
little paunch under a miraculously fitting white waistcoat. Two other
men followed, one elderly, one young.
Cranston waited for them at the top of the path.
The captain was a little flustered too. "Mr. Cranston, gentlemen, the
company's trader here," he said. "His Honour Sir Bryson Trangmar, the
lieutenant-governor of Athabasca," he went on. "Captain Vassall"--the
younger man bowed; "Mr. Baldwin Ferrie"--the other nodded.
There was the suspicion of a twinkle in Cranston's eye. Taking off his
hat he extended an enormous hand. "How do you do, sir," he said
politely. "Welcome to Fort Cheever."
"Charmed! Charmed!" bubbled the neat little gentleman. "Charming
situation you have here. Charming river! Charming hills!"
"I regret that I cannot offer you suitable hospitality," Cranston
continued in his great, quiet voice. "My house is small, as you see,
and very ill-furnished. There are nine of us. But the warehouse shall
be emptied before dark and made ready for you. It is the best building
here."
"Very kind, I'm sure," said Sir Bryson with off-hand
condescension--perhaps he sensed the twinkle, perhaps it was the mere
size of the trader that annoyed him; "but we have brought everything
needful. We will camp here on the grass between the buildings and the
river. Captain Vassall, my aide-de-camp, will see to it. I will talk
to you later Mr.--er?"
"Cranston," murmured the aide-de-camp.
Cranston understood by this that he was dismissed. He sauntered back
to the store with a peculiar smile on his grim lips. In the free North
country they have never become habituated to the insolence of office,
and the display of it strikes them as a very humorous thing,
particularly in a little man.
Sir Bryson and the others reconnoitred the grassy esplanade, and chose
a spot for the camp. It was decided that the party should remain on
the steamboat all night, and go into residence under canvas next day.
They then returned on board for supper, and nothing more was seen of
the strangers for a couple of hours.
At the end of that time Miss Trangmar and her companion, Mrs. Worsley,
arm in arm and hatless, came strolling over the gangplank to enjoy a
walk in the lingering evening. At this season it does not become dark
at Fort Cheever until eleven.
Jack's raft was drawn up on the beach at the steamboat's bow, and as
the ladies came ashore he was disposing his late purchases at the store
upon it, preparatory to dropping downstream to the spot where he meant
to camp. In order to climb the bank the two had to pass close behind
him.
At sight of him the girl's eyes brightened, and, with a mischievous
look she said something to her companion.
"Linda!" the older woman remonstrated.
"Everybody speaks to everybody up here," said the girl. "It was
understood that the conventions were to be left at home."
Thus Jack was presently startled to hear a clear high voice behind him
say: "Are you going to travel on the river with that little thing?"
Hastily straightening his back and turning, he raised his hat. Her
look took him unawares. There was nothing of the insolent queenliness
in it now. She was smiling at him like a fearless, well-bred little
girl. Nevertheless, he reflected, the sex is not confined to the use
of a single weapon, and he stiffened.
"I came down the river on it this morning," he said politely and
non-committal. "To-night I'm going just a little way to camp."
She was very like a little girl, he thought, being so small and
slender, and having such large blue eyes, and such a charming,
childlike smile. Her bright brown hair was rolled back over her ears.
Her lips were very red, and her teeth perfect. She was wearing a silk
waist cunningly contrived with lace, and fitting in severe, straight
lines, ever so faintly suggesting the curves beneath. In spite of
himself everything about her struck subtle chords in Jack's memory. It
was years since he had been so close to a lady.
She was displeased with the manner of his answer. He had shown no
trace either of the self-consciousness or the eager complaisance she
had expected from a local character. Indeed, his gaze returned to the
raft as if he were only restrained by politeness from going on with his
preparations. He reminded her of a popular actor in a Western play
that she had been to see more times than her father knew of. But the
rich colour in Jack's cheek and neck had the advantage of being under
the skin instead of plastered on top. Her own cheeks were a thought
pale.
"How do you go back upstream?" she asked with an absent air that was
intended to punish him.
"You travel as you can," said Jack calmly. "On horseback or afoot."
She pointedly did not wait for the answer, but strayed on up the path
as if he had already passed from her mind. Yet as she turned at the
top her eyes came back to him as if by accident. She had a view of a
broad back, and a bent head intent upon the lashings of the raft. She
bit her lip. It was a disconcerting young man.
A few minutes later Frank Garrod, the governor's secretary, who until
now had been at work in his cabin upon the correspondence the steamboat
was to take back next day, came over the gangplank in pursuit of the
ladies. He was a slim and well-favoured young man, of about Jack's
age, but with something odd and uncontrolled about him, a young man of
whom it was customary to say he was "queer," without any one's knowing
exactly what constituted his queerness. He had black hair and eyes
that made a striking contrast with his extreme pallor. The eyes were
very bright and restless; all his movements were a little jerky and
uneven.
Hearing more steps behind him, Jack looked around abstractedly without
really seeing what he looked at. Garrod, however, obtained a fair look
into Jack's face, and the sight of it operated on him with a terrible,
dramatic suddenness. A doctor would have recognized the symptoms of
what he calls shock. Garrod's arms dropped limply, his breath failed
him, his eyes were distended with a wild and inhuman fear. For an
instant he seemed about to collapse on the stones, but he gathered some
rags of self-control about him, and, turning without a sound, went back
over the gangplank, swaying a little, and walking with wide-open,
sightless eyes like a man in his sleep.
Presently Vassall, the amiable young A.D.C., descending the after
stairway, came upon him leaning against the rail on the river-side of
the boat, apparently deathly sick.
"Good heavens, Garrod! What's the matter?" he cried.
The other man made a pitiable attempt to carry it off lightly.
"Nothing serious," he stammered. "A sudden turn. I have them
sometimes. If you have any whiskey----"
Vassall sprang up the stairway, and presently returned with a flask.
Upon gulping down part of the contents, a little colour returned to
Garrod's face, and he was able to stand straighter.
"All right now," he said in a stronger voice. "You run along and join
the others. Please don't say anything about this."
"I can't leave you like this," said Vassall. "You ought to be in bed."
"I tell you I'm all right," said Garrod in his jerky, irritable way.
"Run along. There isn't anything you can do."
Vassall went his way with a wondering air; real tragedy is such a
strange thing to be intruding upon our everyday lives. Garrod, left
alone, stared at the sluggishly flowing water under the ship's counter
with the kind of sick, desirous eyes that so often look over the
parapets of bridges in the cities at night. But there were too many
people about on the boat; the splash would instantly have betrayed him.
He gathered himself together as with an immense effort, and, climbing
the stairway, went to his stateroom. There he unlocked his valise, and
drawing out his revolver, a modern hammerless affair, made sure that it
was loaded, and slipped it in his pocket. He caught sight of his face
in the mirror and shuddered. "As soon as it's dark," he muttered.
He sat down on his bunk to wait. By and by he became conscious of a
torturing thirst, and he went out into the main cabin for water. Jack,
meanwhile, having loaded his craft, had boarded the steamboat to see if
he could beg or steal a newspaper less than two months old, and the two
men came face to face in the saloon.
Garrod made a move to turn back, but it was too late; Jack had
recognized him now. Seeing the look of amazement in the other's face,
Garrod's hand stole to his hip-pocket, but it was arrested by the sound
of Jack's voice.
"Frank!" he cried, and there was nothing but gladness in the sound.
"Frank Garrod, by all that's holy!" He sprang forward with
outstretched hands. "Old Frank! To think of finding you here!"
Garrod stared in stupid amazement at the smile and the hearty tone.
For a moment he was quite unnerved; his hands and his lips trembled.
"Is it--is it Malcolm Piers?" he stammered.
"Sure thing!" cried Jack, wringing his hand. "What's the matter with
you? You look completely knocked up at the sight of me. I'm no ghost,
man! What are you doing up here."
"I'm Sir Bryson's secretary," murmured Garrod, feeling for his words
with difficulty.
Jack's delight was as transparent as it was unrestrained. The saloon
continued to ring with his exclamations. In the face of it a little
steadiness returned to Garrod, but he could not rid his eyes of their
amazement and incredulity at every fresh display of Jack's gladness.
"You're looking pretty seedy," Jack broke off to say. "Going the pace,
I expect. Now that we've got you up here, you'll have to lead a more
godly and regular life, my boy."
"What are you doing up here, Malcolm?" asked Garrod dully.
"Easy with that name around here, old fel'," said Jack carelessly. "I
left it off long ago. I'm just Jack Chanty now. It's the name the
fellows gave me themselves because I sing by the campfires."
"I understand," said Garrod, with a jerk of eagerness. "Good plan to
drop your own name, knocking around up here."
"I had no reason to be ashamed of it," said Jack quickly. "But it's
too well known a name in the East. I didn't want to be explaining
myself all the time. It was nobody's business, anyway, why I came out
here. So I let them call me what they liked."
"Of course," said Garrod.
"Knock around," cried Jack. "That's just what I do! A little river
work, a little prospecting, a little hunting and trapping, and one hell
of a good time! It beats me how young fellows of blood and muscle can
stew their lives away in cities when this is open to them! New country
to explore, and game to bring down, and gold to look for. The fun of
it, whether you find any or not! This is freedom, Frank, working with
your own hands for all you get, and beholden to no man! By Gad! I'm
glad I found you," he went on enthusiastically. "What talks we'll have
about people and the places back home! I never could live there now,
but I'm often sick to hear about it all. You shall tell me!"
A tremor passed over Garrod's face. "Sure," he said nervously. "I
can't stop just this minute, because they're waiting for me up on the
bank. But I'll see you later."
"To-morrow, then," said Jack easily; but his eyes followed the
disappearing Garrod with a surprised and chilled look. "What's the
matter with him?" they asked.
Garrod as he hurried ashore, his hands trembling, and his face working
in an ecstasy of relief, murmured over and over to himself. "He
doesn't know! He doesn't know!"