Colonel Hallibut
“Jno. T. Smythe; Seller of guns, ammunition, and provisions; Buyer of
furs and game.”
This sign creaked and complained against a dingy little building of
unplaned boards. It was gray and forsaken-looking, being one of about
two hundred others just like it, of gloomy and sullen aspect. This was
Bridgetown. On its one side, stretching eastward, lay a drab-gray fallow
of partly cleared land. Here and there stood a clump of trees; here and
there a solitary stub, ax-scarred or fire-blackened. In these, Nature
seemed to be voicing her resentment of the ravishes of man. In this, the
close of an October day, the little town seemed as dead as the slain
beauties that had once reigned in her place. Westward, beginning with a
stubble of second-growth beeches and maples, the land rolled and
undulated, at each step southward and westward taking on a more
picturesque appearance of natural grandeur. For ten miles inland lay the
scars that civilization had left upon the forest. Then the marks were
seen no more. A yellow ridge of golden-oak marked the boundary-line, and
behind this line lay Bushwhackers’ Place.
Mr. Smythe, the storekeeper, stood gazing out from the dirty pane at the
dreary panorama, occasionally lifting his shifting light-blue eyes
heavenward. A big storm-cloud was rolling in above the forest from the
west.
“Watson ought to be back by now,” he mused for the twentieth time in
half an hour. “God forgive me if I did wrong in letting him take gray
Fan. He’s three stone too heavy for the mare.” He turned from the window
and glanced toward the door. A heavy step was approaching. From without
came a sonorous voice calling and scolding a pack of hounds that now
came scrambling and barking up the deserted street.
“It’s Colonel Hallibut,” whispered Smythe in dismay. “Why does he want
to show up just at this time of all times? Watson might have known that
he would put in his appearance just when he wasn’t wanted. All right,
sir. Yes, sir, I’ll open for you, Colonel. Come in, sir; come in.”
A big form filled the doorway and a big voice spoke.
“Nice storekeeper you are, Smythe, to have your door locked this way.
What’s the matter with you, anyway? Let the dogs come in; poor chaps,
they’re tired.”
“They don’t take to me, your hounds don’t, Colonel,” ventured the
storekeeper. “That brindle fellow took hold of my leg the last time I
let ’em in. However, there you are. Nice doggies, come in and make
yourselves to home.”
“Finest pack in Ontario; finest pack in the whole Dominion, I say—those
fellows,” laughed Hallibut, jolting, in the semi-darkness, against a
pile of furs and toppling it over on the floor.
Immediately three of the tired dogs stretched themselves out on the soft
bed, as though it had been arranged for them, and went to sleep.
Hallibut threw himself into a chair by the fireplace and laughed at the
other’s dismay.
“Better not try to disturb ’em, Smythe,” he cautioned. “They’re ugly, I
tell you. Get them something to eat, will you? And say, Smythe, just
have that nigger of yours get me up a snack, too, like a good fellow;
I’ve been riding since morning.”
“St. Thomas?” asked Mr. Smythe, shifting his light eyes to the Colonel’s
face and patting his thin hair with his long fingers.
“It doesn’t matter,” returned the other. “Where is Watson?”
“I’m sorry to say,” commenced Smythe; but the Colonel turned upon him,
his black brows knit in a frown.
“You needn’t finish. I know.”
He arose stiffly and walked around behind the counter.
“Give me the key, Smythe,” he demanded, holding out his hand.
The Colonel took the key and unlocked a small oak cupboard, extracting
from it a bottle of red liquor.
“I’m afraid if Watson persists in drinking I’ll have to find a new
agent,” he said, walking to the door and throwing the bottle across the
street.
“Seems he can’t resist the drink, Colonel,” stammered the groceryman.
His long face had turned to a yellow-white, though, it was hid by the
advancing night-shadows from the black orbs of the ponderous man before
him.
“I’ll go and have you a meal prepared. Make yourself comfortable,
Colonel Hallibut.”
Not until the door of the inner room closed upon him did the soul of
Smythe vent itself in whispered imprecations. He clenched his claw-like
fists and shook them fiercely. He let forth a tirade of murmured oaths
that would have made a Newfoundland fisherman gasp in wonder. Finally,
he turned and, prying through the gloom, sought out the recumbent figure
of his colored man-of-all-work, who was peacefully sleeping on a cot of
willow-boughs. Smythe crept forward and bent above the sleeper. A
prolonged snore met him. He reached forward and, feeling down the wide
bridge of the negro’s nose until he got the desired hold, he
deliberately gave that member such a violent twist that Sam came out of
Magnolialand to this trying sphere with a suppressed snort.
“Yes, massar,” he cried, struggling up.
“Light the candles and put some bacon to fry,” commanded Smythe.
“Colonel Hallibut is here.”
“Lawd save us!” groaned the colored man. “Where am dem candles at, I
wonder? Hab he got de dorgs, sah?” shading a match with his hands so
that its flickering light showed the apprehension in his white eyeballs.
“Some of them, yes. Don’t stand there shaking. Get his supper ready,
then go down to the Triple Elms and wait for Watson. They mus’n’t meet
until I’ve seen Watson. You tell him the Colonel is here and to lie low
until he leaves.”
Sam had lit the candles and now stood tongueing his thick lips.
“It’s gwine to be a bad night, sah, an’ dey do say a-pack of wolves——”
Smythe lifted his hand.
“Hurry up—I hear him tramping out there. What did I tell you?”
The heavy voice of the Colonel was heard requesting that lights be
brought and the fire be made more cheerful.
“You’d better take a rifle with you,” said the storekeeper, turning to
the negro, his hand on the latch.
Sam waited until the door had closed behind his master. Then he gave way
to silent mirth.
“Massar Smiff don’ want Watson t’ meet de Kennel. An’ de Kennel
a-waitin’ out dar fer Massar Watson ter pop in any time. He! ho! he!
ho!”
He quickly prepared the visitor’s meal, and, lifting the rifle from its
pegs, slipped out by the back door.
After he had eaten his supper Hallibut pushed his chair back from the
table and felt for his pipe.
“When was Watson over to Bushwhackers’ Place last?” he asked, his eyes
on Smythe’s face.
“Let me see—why, I think it was on Tuesday, sir. He said you asked him
to use his influence with those misguided people who prefer savagery to
civilization.”
“Your friend has a vivid imagination,” remarked Hallibut. “He came to
see me and told me a lot of nice things the Bushwhackers intended doing
to me if I didn’t mind my own business. Knowing Watson to be even a
bigger prevaricator than you are, I believed half what he said and let
the rest go by me. However, I know the Bushwhackers haven’t any use for
me. I don’t know why. Guess they think I’d do anything to gain what I’d
set out to,—and they’re not far wrong. He suggested that I let you and
him handle this deal for me, and after consideration I thought maybe I
had better. I’m too short-tempered to ever use diplomacy, and as I’m no
hypocrite I couldn’t soft-soap the Bushwhackers into coming to my way of
thinking. I’m willing to pay them whatever the timber is worth. It ought
to be a good thing for them, and I’m inclined to think they’ll be
sensible and sell the timber. I only want the biggest of the hard
stuff.”
“They’re a bunch of bad ones,” declared Smythe; “a regular band of
cut-throats. They know no law and they hold life as cheap as water. Big
McTavish has incited the others against you. They swear they will kill
you if you set foot on Bushwhackers’ Place.”
“I’m not anxious to set foot on Bushwhackers’ Place, providing I can
secure the timber through an agent. But the timber I must have. I gave
Watson money with which to start the ball rolling. Maybe I’ll see that
money again and maybe I won’t. As I said before, I don’t trust either
you or Watson very far. But both of you know me.”
“We will do our very utmost to get the timber,” said Smythe; and as the
Colonel turned toward him he added, “for _you_.”
“It might be a good idea,” said Hallibut. “As for those Bushwhackers,
I’m not caring a cent what they think of me. I tried to show them that I
was interested in their welfare by building that schoolhouse, that they
might educate their children, and by giving it to them—it and the land
it stands on. I’ve hired young Simpson to teach the school, or you did
with my money, which amounts to the same, and after all this you say the
Bushwhackers want to kill me. Grateful, aren’t they?”
“If you hadn’t built that mill until after you had got possession of the
timber——” faltered Smythe; but the Colonel interrupted him.
“See here, I built that mill on my own land, didn’t I? Surely I don’t
have to ask permission from anybody else when I want to do anything with
my own.”
“I was merely going to say that the mill has driven the fur-bearing
animals out of the creek,” smiled Smythe. “The Bushwhackers say you have
spoiled the best trapping, sir.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that; but my intentions were good. I looked upon
those people as a simple-hearted lot of men and women whose friendship
was worth the winning. It’s funny—me wanting friends at my age. But I’m
getting old and fanciful, I guess.”
Smythe scratched his chin and squinted along his beak-like nose as
though he were aiming the remark at a crack in the floor, as he said:
“They’re not particular about having the trees cut down. They live
mostly by shooting and trapping. But I do know that two thousand acres
of walnut, beech, and hickory is worth a fortune to somebody.”
“Humph! And how long have you known that? Seems queer to me that you and
Watson haven’t tried to corner this timber for yourselves.”
The storekeeper lifted his hands.
“Surely you know us better than that,” he protested.
“I know dogs better than I do men,” said Hallibut, “and I can trust
dogs. I’ve never seen many men that I could trust. It was a man stole
the best thing I ever had in life.”
“Ah,” Mr. Smythe rubbed his hands together and smiled, “a woman?”
Hallibut looked at him, an expression of disgust on his face.
“Yes, but not the kind of woman you know. This one was my sister.”
“Just so,” smirked the grocer; and then he whispered again, “just so.”
“Did you or Watson tell the Bushwhackers what I intend to do with the
boat?” asked Hallibut after a little time had elapsed.
“Yes, and they say that as soon as you try and put your schooner up Lee
Creek there will be trouble. They told Watson to tell you so,” said
Smythe.
“So they warn me, eh?”
Hallibut left his chair and paced up and down the floor.
Smythe sat with a smile of satisfaction on his weasel-like face.
“Of course, they can’t stop you from entering the harbor and sailing
across Rond Eau; neither can they prevent you from sailing up the creek.
But,” he added impressively, “they can burn your boat.”
“Don’t talk foolishness,” cried Hallibut. “They aren’t quite crazy. If
they tried anything like that on with me, I’d wipe ’em out; you hear
me—wipe the whole bunch of ’em out.”
“I think Mr. Watson and I may make some amicable arrangements with the
misguided people,” said Smythe.
“Well, see that you do. Neither of you are honest, and you should make a
success of any job that requires underhand work. But this is a straight,
fair, and square offer. See that you make the Bushwhackers understand
that I want to treat them squarely.”
He sat down and gazed across at Smythe. Slowly the purple died in his
face, and he relighted his pipe and smoked it thoughtfully.
“It’s hard to understand some men,” he said, “—mighty hard. But then
it’s mighty hard to understand some dogs, too. I’ve seen dogs, and owned
’em, intelligent enough to understand most everything I said to them.
But somehow I never got to know their language. Still I’m called a dog’s
superior. Strange, isn’t it? Now, your friend Watson reminds me of a dog
that would wag and fawn all he could out of you.”
He nodded his great head slowly and sent a cloud of smoke ceilingward.
“As the case stands, I’ve trusted him with my money. The question is,
will he play square?”
Mr. Smythe opened his milk-blue eyes wide.
“Oh, you may trust him, my dear Colonel,” he said earnestly. “Mr.
Watson, sir, is an honest servant; a faithful Christian.”
“Humph, think so? Well, maybe you’re right. I’m not feeling exactly like
myself to-night, Smythe, and I’m fanciful, I guess. The fellow who’s
rigging my schooner told me a story this morning—not a nice story,
either—and I’ve been thinking ever since about a poor little woman who
died with not a single friend near her. Here’s the sailor’s story:
“A man by the name of Watts, who was supposed to be a ferryman, lived on
the Detroit River somewhere near Sandwich. A crippled sister kept house
for him, and he, according to report, was a bad one all round. One night
he brought across from the American side a woman and her baby. They had
come a long distance, it seems, and the woman was sick—in fact, she was
dying. This Watts saw she had money, and he took her to his home, where
she died that very night. Before the end came she consigned the baby to
the care of Watts and obtained a promise from him that he would try and
find a man—the sailor couldn’t remember the name—and place the baby,
along with a certain parcel she was carrying, with him.”
Smythe laughed uneasily.
“That was a pretty big contract for Watts to take on.”
“Of course, he never intended to keep it,” said Hallibut. “She gave him
money with which to seek out her friends. The sailor says he put it in
his pocket and let the County bury the poor woman.”
“And the baby?” queried Smythe, his face twitching.
“I’m coming to that. It seems this Watts’ hunchback sister was a good
woman at heart. She wanted to keep the baby. But he sent the child away
into the forest with an Indian on a wild-goose chase and kept the
parcel.”
Smythe made five dots on the paper before him.
“What was in the parcel?” he asked, wiping his eyes.
“The sailor didn’t know, but it was reported to be money. You’ll make me
wish I hadn’t told you this harrowing story, Smythe.”
“Poor mother; poor little orphan,” sighed the storekeeper.
The Colonel stared at him.
“Did I say that the baby’s father had died?” he asked. “You’re right
though, its father was dead. The woman told Watts as much.”
Hallibut arose and stretched his long arms. He was a man far past middle
age, with iron-gray hair, a large face, and deep, kindly eyes. He stood
over six-foot-two, was broad of shoulder, and straight as an arrow.
“That’s the story the sailor told me,” he said grimly. “I’ve been
thinking of that poor woman all day. Poor little thing—sick and dying
amongst strangers. And that man—think of what he did, Smythe. Could you
imagine any man being so inhuman?”
Smythe sat huddled up on his chair.
“How long ago did this thing happen?” he asked.
“It was nineteen years ago; maybe twenty. There’s no doubt about the
baby being dead long ago. Of course, the Indian would reason that it was
less trouble to let the baby die than it was to keep it alive.”
The Colonel locked his hands behind him and paced up and down the room.
He paused before Smythe at last and looked down upon him with misty
eyes.
“I guess I’m not very well,” he said with a short laugh, “—why, this
thing happened twenty years ago; and maybe after all the sailor was
lying.”
Mr. Smythe raised his head.
“Sailors have a habit of lying,” he agreed.
The door opened and Sambo burst into the room.
“I put de hoss inter de stable, Massar Smiff,” he cried.
“Why, who had your horse, Smythe?” asked Hallibut.
Smythe’s weasel eyes shifted from the big man to Sambo.
“I loaned her to—to Alexander Wilson this morning,” he faltered.
“That’s funny,” returned the Colonel. “I met Wilson driving a span of
oxen as I was coming here. Say, Sambo, feed my dogs, like a good fellow;
I want to push on.”
Half an hour after the hoof-beats of Hallibut’s horse had died away
Watson crept into the room. He was breathing heavily and his swarthy
face was drawn and haggard. Mr. Smythe wisely asked no questions.
The agent sank into a seat before the fire. He sat fumbling in his
pocket and from it finally drew out a leather wallet. He opened it and
extracted from it a photograph. He held it out in a shaking hand and
looked at Smythe.
“I’ve hung on to this,” he faltered, “because you thought we ought to
keep it—because you thought if the baby was alive we might know it from
this likeness.”
Smythe nodded, and Watson leaned forward and put the photograph in the
red coals.
“You were right,” he shivered. “I found it. I found it to-day, and I
knew it by that likeness of its mother. Yes, I found the girl, Smythe.”
Smythe glanced fearfully at the snoring Sambo in the corner.
“Where was she?” he asked in an awed whisper.
Watson did not reply. He picked up the poker and bent above the fire.
The cardboard he had tossed in the coals lay there charred and curled.
As he gazed upon it, fascinated, a little baby flame sprang out and
kissed it to glowing life so that from it a face flashed out, sweet,
glad, and triumphant. Then a breeze from the Wild swooped down the wide
chimney and carried it away.