“Here now, Trader; aisy, aisy! Quicksands I’ve seen along the sayshore,
and up to me half-ways I’ve been in wan, wid a double-and-twist in the
rope to pull me out; but a suckin’ sand in the open plain--aw, Trader,
aw! the like o’ that niver a bit saw I.”
So said Macavoy the giant, when the thing was talked of in his presence.
“Well, I tell you it’s true, and they’re not three miles from Fort
O’Glory. The Company’s--[Hudson’s Bay Company]--men don’t talk about
it--what’s the use! Travellers are few that way, and you can’t get the
Indians within miles of them. Pretty Pierre knows all about them--better
than anyone else almost. He’ll stand by me in it--eh, Pierre?”
Pierre, the half-breed gambler and adventurer, took no notice, and was
silent for a time, intent on his cigarette; and in the pause Mowley the
trapper said: “Pierre’s gone back on you, Trader. P’r’aps ye haven’t
paid him for the last lie. I go one better, you stand by me--my
treat--that’s the game!”
“Aw, the like o’ that,” added Macavoy reproachfully. “Aw, yer tongue
to the roof o’ yer mouth, Mowley. Liars all men may be, but that’s wid
wimmin or landlords. But, Pierre, aff another man’s bat like that--aw,
Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o’ yer pipe.”
Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he
did so; but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting
the three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment
musingly; then he lit his cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench
where he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire as it were.
“I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company’s post there. It was the fall of
the year, when you feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the
air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like a woman or a priest?
Mais, no. The seasons are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad; in
the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to do. This matter was in
the fall. I felt that I must move. Yet, what to do? There was the thing.
Cards, of course. But that’s only for times, not for all seasons. So I
was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse--Tophet, black as a
coal, all raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. His legs worked
like piston-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where to go or what to
do. So we used to sit at the Post loafing: in the daytime watching the
empty plains all panting for travellers, like a young bride waiting her
husband for the first time.”
Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an unctuous spirit, and
his heart was soft for women--so soft that he never had had one on his
conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many. But
that was an amiable weakness in a strong man. “Aw, Pierre,” he
said coaxingly, “kape it down; aisy, aisy. Me heart’s goin’ like a
trip-hammer at thought av it; aw yis, aw yis, Pierre.”
“Well, it was like that to me--all sun and a sweet sting in the air. At
night to sit and tell tales and such things; and perhaps a little brown
brandy, a look at the stars, a half-hour with the cattle--the same old
game. Of course, there was the wife of Hilton the factor--fine, always
fine to see, but deaf and dumb. We were good friends, Ida and me. I had
a hand in her wedding. Holy, I knew her when she was a little girl.
We could talk together by signs. She was a good woman; she had
never guessed at evil. She was quick, too, like a flash, to read and
understand without words. A face was a book to her.
“Eh bien. One afternoon we were all standing outside the Post, when
we saw someone ride over the Long Divide. It was good for the eyes. I
cannot tell quite how, but horse and rider were so sharp and clear-cut
against the sky, that they looked very large and peculiar--there was
something in the air to magnify. They stopped for a minute on the top of
the Divide, and it seemed like a messenger out of the strange country at
the farthest north--the place of legends. But, of course, it was only a
traveller like ourselves, for in a half-hour she was with us.
“Yes, it was a girl dressed as a man. She did not try to hide it; she
dressed so for ease. She would make a man’s heart leap in his mouth--if
he was like Macavoy, or the pious Mowley there.”
Pierre’s last three words had a touch of irony, for he knew that the
Trapper had a precious tongue for Scripture when a missionary passed
that way, and a bad name with women to give it point. Mowley smiled
sourly; but Macavoy laughed outright, and smacked his lips on his
pipe-stem luxuriously.
“Aw now, Pierre--all me little failin’s--aw!” he protested.
Pierre swung round on the bench, leaning upon the other elbow, and,
cherishing his cigarette, presently continued:
“She had come far and was tired to death, so stiff that she could hardly
get from her horse; and the horse too was ready to drop. Handsome enough
she looked, for all that, in man’s clothes and a peaked cap, with
a pistol in her belt. She wasn’t big built--just a feathery kind of
sapling--but she was set fair on her legs like a man, and a hand that
was as good as I have seen, so strong, and like silk and iron with a
horse. Well, what was the trouble?--for I saw there was trouble. Her
eyes had a hunted look, and her nose breathed like a deer’s in the
chase. All at once, when she saw Hilton’s wife, a cry came from her and
she reached out her hands. What would women of that sort do? They were
both of a kind. They got into each other’s arms. After that there was
nothing for us men but to wait. All women are the same, and Hilton’s
wife was like the rest. She must get the secret first; then the men
should know. We had to wait an hour. Then Hilton’s wife beckoned to us.
We went inside. The girl was asleep. There was something in the touch
of Hilton’s wife like sleep itself--like music. It was her voice--that
touch. She could not speak with her tongue, but her hands and face were
words and music. Bien, there was the girl asleep, all clear of dust
and stain; and that fine hand it lay loose on her breast, so quiet,
so quiet. Enfin, the real story--for how she slept there does not
matter--but it was good to see when we knew the story.”
The Trapper was laughing silently to himself to hear Pierre in this
romantic mood. A woman’s hand--it was the game for a boy, not an
adventurer; for the Trapper’s only creed was that women, like deer, were
spoils for the hunter. Pierre’s keen eye noted this, but he was above
petty anger. He merely said: “If a man have an eye to see behind the
face, he understands the foolish laugh of a man, or the hand of a good
woman, and that is much. Hilton’s wife told us all. She had rode two
hundred miles from the south-west, and was making for Fort Micah, sixty
miles farther north. For what? She had loved a man against the will of
her people. There had been a feud, and Garrison--that was the lover’s
name--was the last on his own side. There was trouble at a Company’s
post, and Garrison shot a half-breed. Men say he was right to shoot him,
for a woman’s name must be safe up here. Besides, the half-breed drew
first. Well, Garrison was tried, and must go to jail for a year. At the
end of that time he would be free. The girl Janie knew the day. Word
had come to her. She made everything ready. She knew her brothers were
watching--her three brothers and two other men who had tried to get her
love. She knew also that they five would carry on the feud against the
one man. So one night she took the best horse on the ranch and started
away towards Fort Micah. Alors, you know how she got to Guidon Hill
after two days’ hard riding--enough to kill a man, and over fifty yet to
do. She was sure her brothers were on her track. But if she could get to
Fort Micah, and be married to Garrison before they came; she wanted no
more.
“There were only two horses of use at Hilton’s Post then; all the rest
were away, or not fit for hard travel. There was my Tophet, and a lean
chestnut, with a long propelling gait, and not an ounce of loose skin on
him. There was but one way: the girl must get there. Allons, what is
the good? What is life without these things? The girl loves the man: she
must have him in spite of all. There was only Hilton and his wife and me
at the Post, and Hilton was lame from a fall, and one arm in a sling.
If the brothers followed, well, Hilton could not interfere--he was a
Company’s man; but for myself, as I said, I was hungry for adventure,
I had an ache in my blood for something. I was tingling to the toes,
my heart was thumping in my throat. All the cords of my legs were
straightening as if I was in the saddle.
“She slept for three hours. I got the two horses saddled. Who could tell
but she might need help? I had nothing to do; I knew the shortest way to
Fort Micah, every foot--and then it is good to be ready for all things.
I told Hilton’s wife what I had done. She was glad. She made a gesture
at me as to a brother, and then began to put things in a bag for us to
carry. She had settled all how it was to be. She had told the girl.
You see, a man may be--what is it they call me?--a plunderer, and yet a
woman will trust him, comme ca!”
“Aw yis, aw yis, Pierre; but she knew yer hand and yer tongue niver wint
agin a woman, Pierre. Naw, niver a wan. Aw swate, swate, she was, wid a
heart--a heart, Hilton’s wife, aw yis!”
Pierre waved Macavoy into silence. “The girl waked after three hours
with a start. Her hand caught at her heart. ‘Oh,’ she said, still
staring at us, ‘I thought that they had come!’ A little after she and
Hilton’s wife went to another room. All at once there was a sound of
horses outside, and then a knock at the door, and four men come in. They
were the girl’s hunters.
“It was hard to tell what to do all in a minute; but I saw at once the
best thing was to act for all, and to get all the men inside the house.
So I whispered to Hilton, and then pretended that I was a great man in
the Company. I ordered Hilton to have the horses cared for, and, not
giving the men time to speak, I fetched out the old brown brandy,
wondering all the time what could be done. There was no sound from the
other room, though I thought I heard a door open once. Hilton played the
game well, and showed nothing when I ordered him about, and agreed word
for word with me when I said no girl had come, laughing when they told
why they were after her. More than one of them did not believe at first;
but, pshaw, what have I been doing all my life to let such fellows doubt
me? So the end of it was that I got them all inside the house. There was
one bad thing--their horses were all fresh, as Hilton whispered to me.
They had only rode them a few miles--they had stole or bought them at
the first ranch to the west of the Post. I could not make up my mind
what to do. But it was clear I must keep them quiet till something
shaped.
“They were all drinking brandy when Hilton’s wife come into the room.
Her face was, mon Dieu! so innocent, so childlike. She stared at the
men; and then I told them she was deaf and dumb, and I told her why they
had come. Voila, it was beautiful--like nothing you ever saw. She shook
her head so innocent, and then told them like a child that they were
wicked to chase a girl. I could have kissed her feet. Thunder, how she
fooled them! She said, would they not search the house? She said all
through me, on her fingers and by signs. And I told them at once. But
she told me something else--that the girl had slipped out as the last
man came in, had mounted the chestnut, and would wait for me by the iron
spring, a quarter of a mile away. There was the danger that some one of
the men knew the finger-talk, so she told me this in signs mixed up with
other sentences.
“Good! There was now but one thing--for me to get away. So I said,
laughing, to one of the men. ‘Come, and we will look after the horses,
and the others can search the place with Hilton.’ So we went out to
where the horses were tied to the railing, and led them away to the
corral.
“Of course you will understand how I did it. I clapped a hand on his
mouth, put a pistol at his head, and gagged and tied him. Then I got my
Tophet, and away I went to the spring. The girl was waiting. There were
few words. I gripped her hand, gave her another pistol, and then we
got away on a fine moonlit trail. We had not gone a mile when I heard a
faint yell far behind. My game had been found out. There was nothing
to do but to ride for it now, and maybe to fight. But fighting was not
good; for I might be killed, and then the girl would be caught just the
same. We rode on--such a ride, the horses neck and neck, their hoofs
pounding the prairie like drills, rawbone to rawbone, a hell-to-split
gait. I knew they were after us, though I saw them but once on the crest
of a Divide about three miles behind. Hour after hour like that, with
ten minutes’ rest now and then at a spring or to stretch our legs. We
hardly spoke to each other; but, nom de Dieu! my heart was warm to this
girl who had rode a hundred and fifty miles in twenty-four hours. Just
before dawn, when I was beginning to think that we should easy win
the race if the girl could but hold out, if it did not kill her, the
chestnut struck a leg into the crack of the prairie, and horse and girl
spilt on the ground together. She could hardly move, she was so weak,
and her face was like death. I put a pistol to the chestnut’s head, and
ended it. The girl stooped and kissed the poor beast’s neck, but spoke
nothing. As I helped her on my Tophet I put my lips to the sleeve of her
dress. Mother of Heaven! what could a man do--she was so dam’ brave.
“Dawn was just breaking oozy and grey at the swell of the prairie over
the Jumping Sandhills. They lay quiet and shining in the green-brown
plain; but I knew that there was a churn beneath which could set those
swells of sand in motion, and make glory-to-God of an army. Who can tell
what it is? A flood under the surface, a tidal river-what? No man knows.
But they are sea monsters on the land. Every morning at sunrise they
begin to eddy and roll--and who ever saw a stranger sight? Bien, I
looked back. There were those four pirates coming on, about three miles
away. What was there to do? The girl and myself on my blown horse were
too much. Then a great idea come to me. I must reach and cross the
Jumping Sandhills before sunrise. It was one deadly chance.
“When we got to the edge of the sand they were almost a mile behind. I
was all sick to my teeth as my poor Tophet stepped into the silt. Sacre,
how I watched the dawn! Slow, slow, we dragged over that velvet powder.
As we reached the farther side I could feel it was beginning to move.
The sun was showing like the lid of an eye along the plain. I looked
back. All four horsemen were in the sand, plunging on towards us. By the
time we touched the brown-green prairie on the farther side the sand was
rolling behind us. The girl had not looked back. She seemed too dazed.
I jumped from the horse, and told her that she must push on alone to the
Fort, that Tophet could not carry both, that I should be in no danger.
She looked at me so deep--ah, I cannot tell how! then stooped and kissed
me between the eyes--I have never forgot. I struck Tophet, and she was
gone to her happiness; for before ‘lights out!’ she reached the Fort and
her lover’s arms.
“But I stood looking back on the Jumping Sandhills. So, was there ever
a sight like that--those hills gone like a smelting-floor, the sunrise
spotting it with rose and yellow, and three horses and their riders
fighting what cannot be fought?--What could I do? They would have got
the girl and spoiled her life, if I had not led them across, and they
would have killed me if they could. Only one cried out, and then but
once, in a long shriek. But after, all three were quiet as they fought,
until they were gone where no man could see, where none cries out so
we can hear. The last thing I saw was a hand stretching up out of the
sands.”
There was a long pause, painful to bear. The Trader sat with eyes fixed
humbly as a dog’s on Pierre. At last Macavoy said: “She kissed ye,
Pierre, aw yis, she did that! Jist betune the eyes. Do yees iver see her
now, Pierre?”
But Pierre, looking at him, made no answer.