Morning breaks, one awakes refreshed and quiescent, and, wondering a
little at the heats and disturbances of the day before, makes a fresh
start. Mary was not to be seen about the fort, and Jack presently
learned that she and Davy had departed on horseback at daybreak for the
Indian camp at Swan Lake. He was relieved, for, after what had
happened, the thought of having to meet Mary and adjust himself to a
new footing made him uncomfortable.
Jack's self-love had received a serious blow, and he secretly longed
for something to rehabilitate himself in his own eyes. At the same
time he was not moved by any animosity toward Cranston, the instrument
of his downfall; on the contrary, though he could not have explained
it, he felt decidedly drawn toward the grim trader, and after a while
he sheepishly entered the store in search of him. He found Cranston
quite as diffident as himself, quite as anxious to let bygones be
bygones. There was genuine warmth in his handclasp.
They made common cause in deriding the gubernatorial party.
"Lord love ye!" said Cranston. "Never was an outfit like to that!
Card-tables, mind ye, and folding chairs, and hanging lamps, and a
son-of-a-gun of a big oil-stove that burns blue blazes! Fancy
accommodating that to a horse's back! I've sent out to round up all
the company horses. They'll need half a regiment to carry that stuff."
"What's the governor's game up here?" asked Jack.
"You've got me," said Cranston. "Coal lands in the canyon, he says."
"That's pretty thin," said Jack. "It doesn't need a blooming governor
and his train to look at a a bit of coal. There's plenty of coal
nearer home."
"There's a piece about it in one of the papers the steamboat brought,"
said Cranston.
He found the place, and exhibited it to Jack, who read a fulsome
account of how his honour Sir Bryson Trangmar had decided to spend the
summer vacation of the legislature in touring the North of the
province, with a view of looking into its natural resources; that the
journey had been hastily determined upon, and was to be of a strictly
non-official character, hence there were to be no ceremonies en route
beyond the civilities extended to any private traveller; that this was
only one more example of the democratic tendencies of our popular
governor, etc.
"Natural resources," quoted Jack. "That's the ring in the cake!"
"You think the coal they're after has a yellow shine?" suggested
Cranston.
Jack nodded. "Even a governor may catch that fever," he said. "By
Gad!" he cried suddenly, "do you remember those two
claim-salters--Beckford and Rowe their names were--who went out after
the ice last May?"
"They stopped here," said Cranston. "I remember them."
"What if those two----" suggested Jack.
"Good Lord!" cried Cranston, "the governor himself!"
"If it's true," cried Jack, "it's the richest thing that ever happened!
A hundred years from now they'll still be telling the story around the
fires and splitting their sides over it. It's like Beckford, too; he
was a humourist in his way. This is too good to miss. I believe I'll
go back with them."
From discussing Sir Bryson's object they passed to Jack's own work in
the Spirit River Pass. No better evidence of the progress these two
had made in friendship could be had than Jack's willingness to tell
Cranston of his "strike," the secret that a man guards closer than his
crimes.
"I don't mind telling you that I have three good claims staked out,"
said Jack. "In case I should be stopped from filing them, I'll leave
you a full description before I go. I'll leave you my little bag of
dust too, to keep for me."
"You're serious about going back with them, then?" said Cranston.
Jack nodded. "I ought to go, anyway, to make sure they don't blanket
anything of mine."
In due course Jack produced his little canvas bag, which the trader
sealed, weighed, and receipted for.
"There's another thing I wanted to talk to you about," said Jack
diffidently. "I can't hold these three claims myself. I want you to
take one."
"Me?" exclaimed Cranston in great astonishment.
"Yes," stammered Jack, still more embarrassed. "For--for her, you
know--Mary. I feel that I owe it to her. I want her to have it,
anyway. She needn't know it came from me. It's a good claim."
Cranston would not hear of it, and they argued hotly.
"You're standing in your own daughter's light," said Jack at last.
"I'm not giving you anything. It's for her. You haven't any right to
deprive her of a good thing."
Cranston was silenced by this line; they finally shook hands on it, and
turned with mutual relief to less embarrassing subjects. Jack had the
comfortable sensation that in a measure he had squared himself with
himself.
"Who's running the governor's camp?" asked Jack.
"They brought up Jean Paul Ascota from the Crossing."
"So!" said Jack, considerably interested. "The conjuror and medicine
man, eh? I hear great tales of him from all the tribes. What is he?"
Cranston exhibited no love for the man under discussion. "His father
and mother were half-breed Crees," he said. "He has a little place at
the Crossing where he lives alone--he never married--but most of the
time he is tripping; long hikes from Abittibi to the Skeena, and from
the edge of the farming country clear to Herschel Island in the Arctic,
generally alone. Too much business, and too mysterious for an Indian,
I say. He's a strong man in his way, he has a certain power, you
wouldn't overlook him in a crowd; but I doubt if he's up to any good.
He's one of those natives that plays double, you know them, a white man
wi' white men, and a red wi' the reds. Much too smooth and plausible
for my taste. Lately he has got religion, and he goes around wi' a
Bible in his pocket, which is plumb ridiculous, knowing what you and I
know about his conjuring practices among the tribes."
"I've heard he's a good tripper," said Jack.
"Oh, none better," said Cranston. "I'll say that for him; there's no
man knows the whole country like he does, or a better hand in a canoe,
or with horses, or around the camp. But, look you, after all he's only
an Indian. Here he's been with these people a week, and already his
head is turned. They don't know what they're doing, so they defer to
him in everything, and consequently the Indian's head is that swelled
wi' giving orders to white men his feet can hardly keep the ground.
Their camp is at a standstill."
"Hm!" said Jack; "it's a childish outfit, isn't it? It would be a kind
of charity to take them in hand."
A little later Jack ran into the redoubtable Jean Paul Ascota himself,
whom he immediately recognized from Cranston's description. As the
trader had intimated, there was something strongly individual and
peculiar in the aspect of the half-breed. He was a handsome man of
forty-odd years, not above the average in height, but very broad and
strong, and with regular, aquiline features. Though Cranston had said
he was half-bred, there was no sign of the admixture of any white blood
in his coppery skin, his straight black hair, and his savage,
inscrutable eyes. He was dressed in a neatly fitting suit of black,
and he wore "outside" shoes instead of the invariable moccasins. This
ministerial habit was relieved by a fine blue shirt with a rolling
collar and a red tie, and the whole was completed by the usual
expensive felt hat with flaring, stiff brim. A Testament peeped out of
one side-pocket.
But it was the strange look of his eyes that set the man apart, a
still, rapt look, a shine as from close-hidden fires. They were
savage, ecstatic, contemptuous eyes. When he looked at you, you had
the feeling that there was a veil dropped between you, invisible to
you, but engrossed with cabalistic symbols that he was studying while
he appeared to be looking at you. In all this there was a certain
amount of affectation. You could not deny the man's force, but there
was something childish too in the egregious vanity which was perfectly
evident.
He was sitting on a box in the midst of the camp disarray, smoking
calmly, the only idle figure in sight. Tents, poles, and miscellaneous
camp impedimenta were strewn on one side of the trail; on the other the
deck-hands were piling the stores of the party. Sidney Vassall, with
his inventory, assisted by Baldwin Ferrie, both in a state approaching
distraction, were pawing over the boxes and bundles, searching for
innumerable lost articles, that were lost again as soon as they were
found.
Vassall was not a particularly sympathetic figure to Jack, but the
sight of the white men stewing while the Indian loafed was too much for
his Anglo-Saxon sense of the fitness of things. His choler promptly
rose, and, drawing Vassall aside, he said:
"Look here, why do you let that beggar impose on you like this? You'll
never be able to manage him if you knuckle down now."
Vassall was a typical A.D.C. from the provinces, much better fitted to
a waxed floor than the field. The hero of a hundred drawing-rooms made
rather a pathetic figure in his shapeless, many-pocketed "sporting"
suit. His much-admired manner of indiscriminate, enthusiastic
amiability seemed to have lost its potency up here.
"What can I do?" he said helplessly. "He says he can't work himself,
or he won't be able to boss the Indians that are coming."
"Rubbish!" said Jack. "Everybody has to work on the trail. I'll put
him to work for you. Show me how the tents go."
Vassall gratefully explained the arrangement. There was a square tent
in the centre, with three smaller A-tents opening off. Jack measured
the ground and drove the stakes. Then spreading the canvas on the
ground, preparatory to raising it, he called cheerfully:
"Lend a hand here, Jean Paul. You hold up the poles while I pull the
ropes."
The half-breed looked at him with cool, slow insolence, and dropping
his eyes to his pipe, pressed the tobacco in the bowl with a delicate
finger. He caught his hands around his knee, and leaned back with the
expression of one enjoying a recondite joke.
Jack's face reddened. Promptly dropping the canvas, he strode toward
the half-breed, his hands clenching as he went.
"Look here, you damned redskin!" he said, not too loud. "If you can't
hear a civil request, I've a fist to back it up, understand? You get
to work, quick, or I'll knock your head off!"
The native deck hands stopped dead to see what would happen. Out of
the blue sky the thunderbolt of a crisis had fallen. Jean Paul, the
object of their unbounded fear and respect, they invested with
supernatural powers, and they looked to see the white man annihilated.
The breed slowly raised his eyes again, but this time they could not
quite meet the blazing blue ones. There was a pregnant pause. Finally
Jean Paul got up with a shrug of bravado, and followed Jack back to the
tents. He was beaten without a blow on either side. A breath of
astonishment escaped the other natives. Jean Paul heard it, and the
iron entered his soul. The glance he bent on Jack's back glittered
with the cold malignancy of a poisonous snake. It was all over in a
few seconds and the course of the events for weeks to come was decided,
a course involving, at the last, madness, murder, and suicide.
On the face of it the work proceeded smartly, and by lunch time the
tents were raised, the furniture and the baggage stowed within, and
Vassall's vexatious inventory checked complete. His effusive gratitude
made Jack uncomfortable. Jack cut him short, and nonchalantly returned
to his own camp, where he cooked his dinner and ate it alone.
Afterward, cleaning his gun by the fire, he reviewed the crowded events
of the past twenty-four hours in the ever-delightful, off-hand,
cocksure fashion of youth that the oldsters envy, while they smile at
it. His glancing thoughts ran something like this:
"To be put to sleep like that! Damn! But I couldn't see what I was
doing. If it hadn't been dark! ... At any rate, nobody knows. It's
good he didn't black my eye. Cranston'll never tell. He's a square
old head all right. I suppose it was coming to me. Damn! ... I like
Cranston, though. He's making up to me now. He'd like me to marry the
girl. She'd take me quick enough. Nice little thing, too. Fine eyes!
But marriage! Not on your cartridge-belt! Not for Jack Chanty! The
world is too full of sport. I haven't nearly had my fill! ... The
governor's daughter! Rather a little strawberry, too. Professional
angler. I know 'em. Got a whole bookful of fancy flies for men.
Casts them prettily one after another till you rise, then plop! into
her basket with the other dead fish. You'll never get me on your hook,
little sister... I can play a little myself. If you let on you don't
care, with that kind, it drives 'em wild.... Shouldn't wonder if she
had old Frank going.... Rum start, meeting him up here. What a scared
look he gave me. I wonder! ... He's changed.... Very likely it's
politics, and graft, and getting on in the world. Doesn't want to
associate too closely with a tough like me, now.... Oh, very well!
These big-bugs can't put me out of face. I can show them a thing or
two.... I put that Indian down in good shape. I have the trick of it.
He's a queer one. They'll have trouble with him later. Women with
them, too. Hell of an outfit to come up here, anyway."
Jack's meditations were interrupted by Frank Garrod, who came threading
his way through the poplar saplings. Jack sprang up with a gladness
only a little less hearty than upon their first meeting the night
before.
"Hello, old fel'!" he cried. "Glad you looked me up! We can talk off
here by ourselves."
But it appeared that Frank had come only for the purpose of carrying
Jack back with him. Sir Bryson had expressed a wish to thank him for
his assistance that morning. Jack frowned, and promptly declined the
honour, but upon second thought he changed his mind. There was a plan
growing in his head which necessitated a talk with Sir Bryson.
They made their way back together, Frank making an unhappy attempt to
appear at his ease. He had something on his mind. He started to
speak, faltered, and fell silent. But it troubled him still. Finally
it came out.
"I say," he said in his jerky way, "as long as you want to keep your
real name quiet, we had better not let on that we are old friends, eh?"
Jack looked at him quickly, all his enthusiasm of friendliness dying
down.
"We can seem to become good friends by degrees," Garrod went on lamely.
"It need only be a matter of a few days."
"Just as you like," said Jack coolly.
"But it's you I'm thinking of."
"You needn't," said Jack. "I don't care what people call me. You
needn't be afraid that I'll trouble you with my society."
"You don't understand," Garrod murmured miserably.
However, in merely bringing the matter up he had accomplished his
purpose, for Jack never acted quite the same to him afterward.
A little to one side of the tents they came upon a group of finished
worldliness such as had never before been seen about Fort Cheever.
From afar, the younger Cranston boys stared at it awestruck. Miss
Trangmar and her companion sat in two of the folding chairs, basking in
the sun, while Vassall and Baldwin Ferrie reclined on the grass at
their feet, the former, his day's work behind him, now clad in
impeccable flannels. The centre of the picture was naturally the
little beauty, looking in her purple summer dress as desirable, as
fragile, and as expensive as an orchid. At the sight of her Jack's
nostrils expanded a little in spite of himself. Lovely ladies who
metamorphosed themselves every day, not to speak of several times a
day, were novel to him.
As the two men made to enter the main tent she called in her sweet,
high voice: "Present our benefactor, Mr. Garrod."
Garrod brought Jack to her. Garrod was very much confused.
"I----I"--he stammered, looking imploringly at Jack.
"They call me Jack Chanty," Jack said quietly, with his air of "take it
or leave it."
"Miss Trangmar, Mrs. Worsley," Garrod murmured looking relieved.
Jack bowed stiffly.
"We are tremendously obliged," the little lady said, making her eyes
big with gratitude. "Captain Vassall says he would never have got
through without you."
A murmur of assent went round the circle. Jack would not out of sheer
obstinacy make the polite and obvious reply. He looked at the elder
lady. He liked her looks. She reminded him of an outspoken cousin of
his boyhood. She was plain of feature and humorous-looking, very well
dressed, and with an air of high tolerance for human failings.
"In pleasing Miss Trangmar you put us all under heavy obligations,"
said Baldwin Ferrie with a simper. He was a well-meaning little man.
"By Jove! yes," added Vassall; "when she's overcast we're all in
shadow."
Everybody laughed agreeably.
"Mercy!" exclaimed Linda Trangmar, "one would think I had a fearful
temper, and kept you all in fear of your lives!"
There was a chorus of disclaimers. Jack felt slightly nauseated. He
looked away. The girl stole a wistful glance at his scornful profile,
the plume of fair hair, the cold blue eyes, the resolute mouth. All of
a sudden she had become conscious of the fulsome atmosphere, too. She
wondered what secrets the proud youthful mask concealed. She wondered
if there was a woman for whom the mask was dropped, and if she were
prettier than herself.
Meanwhile Jack felt as if he were acting like a booby, standing there.
He was impelled to say something, anything, to show them he was not
overcome by their assured worldliness. He addressed himself to Vassall.
"You have had no trouble with the Indian, since?"
"None whatever," Vassall said. "He's gone off now with some of the
people here."
Garrod took advantage of the next lull to say: "Sir Bryson is waiting
for us."
Jack bowed again, and made a good retreat.
"I told you he was a gentleman," said Linda to Mrs. Worsley.
That lady had been impressed with the same fact, but she said
cautiously, as became a chaperon: "His manner is rather brusque."
"But he has manner," remarked Linda slyly.
"We know nothing about him, my dear."
"That's just it," said Linda. "Fancy meeting a real mystery in these
matter-of-fact days. I shall find out his right name."
"They say it's not polite to ask questions about a man's past in this
country," suggested Vassall with a playful air.
"Nor safe," put in Mrs. Worsley.
"Who cares for safety?" cried Linda. "I came North for adventures, and
I mean to have them! Isn't he handsome?" she added wickedly.
The two men assented without enthusiasm.
Within the main tent Sir Bryson was seated at a table, looking the very
pink of official propriety. There were several piles of legal
documents and miscellaneous papers before him, with which he appeared
to be busily occupied. It was noticeable that his chief concern was to
have the piles arranged with mathematical precision. He never finished
shaking and patting them straight. At first he ignored Jack. Handing
some papers to Garrod, he said:
"These are now ready to be sent, Mr. Garrod. Please bear in mind my
various instructions concerning them."
Garrod retired to another table. He proceeded to fold and enclose the
various documents, but from the tense poise of his head it was clear
that he followed all that was said.
Sir Bryson now affected to become aware of Jack's presence with a
little start. He looked him up and down as one might regard a fine
horse he was called on to admire. "So this is the young man who was of
so much assistance to us this morning?" he said with a smile of heavy
benignity.
Jack suppressed an inclination to laugh in his face.
"We are very much obliged to you, young sir--very," said Sir Bryson
grandly.
"It was nothing, sir," said Jack, smiling suddenly. He knew if he
caught Garrod's eye he would burst out laughing.
"I now desire to ask you some questions relative to the big canyon,"
continued Sir Bryson. "I am told you know it."
"I have just come from there," said Jack.
"Is there a good trail?"
"I came by water. But I know the trail. It is well-travelled. There
are no muskegs, and the crossings are easy."
"You know the canyon well?"
"I have been working above it for three months."
Sir Bryson favoured Jack with a beady glance. "Um!" he said. And then
suddenly: "Are you free for the next month or so?"
Garrod raised his eyes with a terrified look.
"That depends," said Jack.
"Are you prepared to consider an offer to guide our party?"
Garrod bit his lips to keep back the protest that sprang to them.
"If it is sufficiently attractive," said Jack coolly.
Sir Bryson opened his eyes. "Three dollars a day, and everything
found," he said sharply.
Jack smiled, and shook his head. "That is the ordinary pay of a white
man in this country," he said. "This is a responsible job. I'd expect
five at least."
Sir Bryson made a face of horror. "Out of the question!" he exclaimed.
"I'm not at all anxious for it at any price," said Jack. "It will be
difficult. You are very badly provided----"
"We have everything!" cried Sir Bryson.
"Except necessities," said Jack. "Moreover, men should have been
engaged in advance, good packers, boatmen, axemen. We can't get good
material on the spur of the moment, and I have no wish to be blamed for
what goes wrong by others' doing."
Sir Bryson puffed out his cheeks. "You take a good deal on yourself,
young man," he said heatedly. "Let me ask you a few questions now if
you please. What is your name?"
"I am known throughout the country as Jack Chanty."
"But your real name."
"I do not care to give it."
A long breath escaped slowly from between Garrod's clenched teeth, and
he wiped his face.
The little governor swelled like a pouter pigeon. "Tut!" he exclaimed.
"This is preposterous. Do you think I would entrust myself and my
party to a nameless nobody from nowhere?"
Sir Bryson, pleased with the sound of this phrase, glanced over at
Garrod for approval.
"I'm not after the job, Sir Bryson," said Jack coolly. "You opened the
matter. I am known throughout the country. Ask Cranston."
Garrod, seeing his chief about to weaken, could no longer hold his
peace. "Wouldn't it be as well to let the matter go over?" he
suggested casually.
Sir Bryson turned on him very much annoyed. "Mr. Garrod, by your
leave," he said crushingly. "I was about to make the suggestion
myself. That will be all just now," he added to Jack.
Jack sauntered away to talk the matter over with Cranston.
Sir Bryson spoke his mind warmly to his secretary concerning the
latter's interference. Garrod, however, relieved of Jack's presence,
recovered a measure of sang-froid.
"I'm sorry," he said smoothly, "but I couldn't stand by and listen to
the young ruffian browbeat you."
"Browbeat nothing," said the irate little governor. "Bargaining is
bargaining! He stands out for as much as he can."
Garrod turned pale. "You're surely not thinking of engaging him!" he
said.
"There's no one else," said Sir Bryson.
"But he's more insolent than the Indian," said Garrod nervously. "And
who is he? what is he? Some nameless fugitive from justice!"
"You overlook the fact that he doesn't care whether I engage him or
not," said Sir Bryson. "Our assurance lies in that."
"A shallow pretence," cried Garrod.
Sir Bryson turned squarely in his chair. "You seem to be strangely set
against hiring this fellow," he said curiously.
Garrod was effectually silenced. With a gesture, he went on with his
work.
Later he sought out Jack again. They sat on a bench at the edge of the
bank, and Garrod suffered himself to answer some painful questions
first, in order that he might not appear to be too eager to broach the
subject that agitated his mind.
At last he said with an assumed heartiness in which there was something
very painful to see: "I tell you it did me good to hear you giving the
old man what for this afternoon. He leads me a dog's life!"
"Oh, that was only in the way of a dicker," said Jack carelessly. "He
expected it. Any one could see he loves a bargain."
"Don't let yourself in for this one," said Garrod earnestly. "You'll
repent it if you do. He'll interfere all the time, and insist on his
own way, then blame you when things go wrong."
"The trouble with you is you're in awe of him because he's the Big
Chief outside," said Jack. "That doesn't go up here."
"Then you mean to come?" faltered Garrod.
"If he accepts my terms," said Jack. "I don't mean to let myself go
too cheap."
Garrod's head drooped. "Well--don't say I didn't warn you," he said in
an odd, flat tone.
V