THE STAFF OF LIFE.
Lifting the blind over the entrance, Ambrose dived inside the teepee,
Simon Grampierre at his heels. In the center a small fire burned on
the ground, and behind it sat five dark-skinned figures in a semicircle.
Not one of the five faces changed a muscle at their entrance. The
principal man with a grave inclination of the head, waved them a
blanket which had been placed for them opposite him.
It was like an old-time Indian council, but the picturesqueness was a
good deal spoiled by the gingham shirts they wore, and the ill-fitting
coats and trousers from the store.
Moreover, the red men's pipes, instead of the graceful calumets were
English briars with showy silver bands. The bowl of Watusk's pipe, of
which he appeared to be inordinately proud, was roughly carved into the
likeness of a death's head.
Watusk was an extraordinary figure. Ambrose was reminded of a quack
doctor in poor circumstances. He was middle-aged and flabby, and had
long, straggling gray hair, bound round with a cotton fillet, none too
clean.
He wore a frock coat all buttoned up before, each button constricting
his fat, with a bulge between. His trousers were made from a blanket
once white, with a wide black band around the calf of each leg, and he
wore fine doeskin moccasins, richly embroidered with silk.
His dirty fingers displayed a quantity of brass rings from the store,
set with gems of colored glass. His heavy, loose-featured face was
unremarkable, except for the extraordinarily bright, quick, shallow
eyes, suggesting at different moments the eyes of a child, an animal,
and a madman.
His skin showed a tinge of yellow as distinguished from the pure copper
of his companions, and Ambrose was reminded of the black man.
Watusk grandiloquently introduced his four companions. "My
councilors," he said: "Toma, minister of state; Lookoovar, minister of
war; Mahtsonza, minister of interior; Tatateecha, minister of medicine."
Thus their uncouth names as Ambrose got them. He avoided Simon's eye,
and bit his lip to keep from laughing. The four were all small men
with the fine characteristic faces of pure bred savages.
They understood not a word of what was said, but preserved an
unshakable gravity throughout. Ambrose, as they were named, christened
them anew, according to their several characteristics: Coyote, Moose,
Bear and Weasel.
The last was a little shriveled creature, hung with charms and amulets
in tobacco bags until he looked like a scarecrow. He had an eye even
wilder and shiftier than his master's.
"Conjure-man," murmured Simon in Ambrose's ear.
"Let Ambrose Doane speak," said Watusk. He used good English.
Ambrose had adopted from Peter Minot the maxim: "Make the other man
speak first, and get a line on him." He bowed politely. "Ambrose
Doane will not speak until Watusk has spoken," he said.
Watusk highly gratified, bowed again, and forthwith began. "I am glad
to see Ambrose Doane. He is good to my eyes lak the green leaves in
spring. He is come to Fort Enterprise and there is no more winter.
"The name of Peter Minot and the name of Ambrose Doane make good words
to my ear. They are the friends of the red men. They pay good price
for fur. They sell outside goods cheap. I want a box of cigars me,
same lak you send Simon Grampierre."
Ambrose recognizing Watusk's type was not put out by the sudden drop
from the sublime to the ridiculous. He now had a "line" on his man.
Swallowing his laughter, he answered in a similar strain.
"I am glad to see Watusk. I wish to be his friend. I come from the
big lake six days' journey toward the place of the rising sun. So far
as that men tell me of the Kakisa nation, and tell of Watusk who rules
them.
"Men say the Kakisa men are the best hunters of the north and honest as
the sun in summer-time. Men say Watusk is a wise chief and a good
friend of the white men. I have plenty cigars in my outfit."
The chief swelled with gratification until his much-tried buttons
threatened altogether to part company with his coat.
A good deal more of this airy exchange was necessitated before Watusk
could be induced to talk business. When he finally condescended to it,
the story was as Simon had forecast:
"When Ambrose Doane come here I say to my people: 'Trade with him. He
will be your father. He will feed you.' Now when they come for flour
Simon Grampierre say you got no flour.
"When I go to John Gaviller for flour, he mock me. He say: 'You take
Ambrose Doane for your father. All right. Let him feed you now.' So
I am not know what to do. Every day my people more ongry, more mad.
"Pretty soon the young men make trouble. There is no game here. We
can't stay here without flour. We can't go back without flour. I am
feel moch bad. But Ambrose Doane is come now. It is all right!"
The last of this was delivered with something like a leer, warning
Ambrose's subconsciousness that Watusk, notwithstanding the flowery
compliments, wished him no good.
"I have plenty of grain," he said warily. "Let each woman grind for
her own family."
Watusk shook his head. "Long tam ago we got stone bowls for grind wild
rice in," he said. "So many years we buy flour all the bowls is broke
and throw away now."
Ambrose could not deny to himself the gravity of the situation. He was
reminded afresh that he was dealing with a savage by the subtle,
threatening note that presently crept into Watusk's smooth voice.
"John Gaviller say to Gordon Strange for say to me: 'Ambrose Doane got
all the grain. Let Ambrose Doane sell his grain to me, and I give you
flour.'"
Ambrose, perceiving the drift, swore inwardly.
"Gordon Strange tell that in Kakisa language," Watusk went on slyly;
"some hear it and tell the others. All know now. If my people get
more hungry what can I do? Maybe my young men steal the grain and take
it to Gaviller."
"If they lay hands on my property they'll be shot," said Ambrose,
curtly.
Watusk spread out his hands deprecatingly. "Me, I tell them that," he
said. "But they are so mad!"
"John Gaviller is trying to use you to work his own ends," said Ambrose.
Watusk shrugged indifferently. This was the real man, Ambrose thought.
"Maybe so. You got trouble with Gaviller. That is not my trouble.
All I want is flour."
"You shall have it!" cried Ambrose boldly. "Enough to-morrow morning
to feed every family. Enough in three days to fill your order."
Watusk appeared to be a little taken aback, by the prompt granting of
his demand. "Where will you get it?" he asked.
"I will get it," Ambrose said. "That is enough."
When Ambrose and Simon got outside the teepee Simon asked the same
question: "Where _will_ you get it?"
"I don't know," said Ambrose. "Give me time. I'll find a way!"
"If Gaviller gets the Kakisa fur you'll make no profit this year,"
suggested Simon.
"I have to consider other things as well as profit," Ambrose said.
"There are more years to come."
Reaching the dugout, Simon asked: "Where now?"
"To the Fort," said Ambrose. "You don't have to come."
"We are together," said Simon grimly.
Ambrose, deeply moved by gratitude, growled inarticulately. He felt
himself young to stand alone against such powerful forces.
Crossing the river, they landed below the big yellow house and applied
at the side door for Colina. She had returned from her ride, they were
told. They were shown into the library.
In this little room Ambrose had already touched the summit of
happiness, and tasted despair. He hated it now. He kept his eyes on
the carpet.
Simon was visibly uneasy while they waited. "You think this any good?"
he suggested.
"No," said Ambrose bitterly. "I know well enough what I'll get. But
I've got to go through with it before taking the next step."
"John Gaviller live well," said Simon significantly, but without
bitterness.
Colina came in with her queenliest air. She had changed her riding
habit for clinging white draperies that made her look like a lovely,
arrogant saint. Ambrose, raising his sullen eyes to her, experienced a
new shock of desire that put the idea of flour out of his head.
To old Simon, Colina inclined her head as gracefully and indifferently
as a swan. The grim patriarch became humble under the spell of her
white beauty. He fingered his hat nervously. To Ambrose Colina said
with subtle scorn meant for his ear alone:
"What is it?"
Ambrose screwed down the clamps of self-control. "I asked for you," he
said stolidly, "because I did not know if your father was well enough
to talk business. May I see him for five minutes?"
"No," she said, without condescending to explain.
"Then I will tell you," said Ambrose. "It is about the Indians across
the river. I must have some flour for them."
"Must?" she repeated, raising her eyebrows.
"They are suffering from hunger," he said firmly.
"You will have to see Mr. Strange," she said coolly. "He is in charge
of the business."
"This is a question for the head to decide," warned Ambrose.
"You will have to see Mr. Strange," she repeated, unmoved.
Ambrose's eyes flamed up. For a moment the two pairs
contended--Ambrose's passionate, Colina's steely. The man was
struggling with the atavic impulse to thrash the maddening, arrogant
woman creature into a humbler frame of mind.
It may be, too, that deep in her heart of hearts Colina desired
something of the kind. Perhaps she could not master her worser self
alone. Anyhow, it was impossible there in her own stronghold, with
Simon looking on. They were too civilized or not civilized enough.
Ambrose merely bowed to her and led the way out of the room and out of
the house.
"Thank God, that is over!" he murmured outside.
Crossing the square, they entered the store. It was the first time
Ambrose had been inside that famous show-place of the north, but he had
no eyes for it now. Gordon Strange welcomed them with smiling
heartiness.
"Come in! Come in!" he cried, leading the way into the rear office.
"Sit down! Have a cigar!"
The scowling Ambrose stared as if he thought the man demented. He
waved the cigar away and came directly to the point.
"I want to find out what you're willing to do about the Kakisa Indians."
"Sure!" cried Strange with apparently the best will in the world. "Sit
down. What do you propose?"
"How much will you charge me to grind me five hundred bushels of grain
for them?"
"I'm sorry," said Strange. "The old man won't hear of it."
"Will you let them starve?" cried Ambrose.
"What can I do?" said Strange distressfully. "I'm not the head."
"Grind it in spite of him," said Ambrose. "Humanity and prudence would
both be on your side. You'll get their fur by it."
"I think Mr. Gaviller expects to get the fur anyway," said Strange with
a seeming deprecatory air--but the suspicion of a smirk wreathed his
full lips.
"Then I am to understand that you refuse to grind my grain at any
price," said Ambrose.
"Orders are orders," murmured Strange.
"Has Gaviller given you this order since he knew the people were
hungry?"
"He has told me his mind many times."
"That is not a direct answer. Some one must take the full
responsibility. If I write a short note to Gaviller will you deliver
it and bring me back an answer?"
Strange hesitated for the fraction of a second. "Yes," he said.
Ambrose wrote a succinct statement of the situation, and Strange
departed.
"Gaviller will never do it," said Simon.
"I don't expect him to," said Ambrose. "But he's got to commit
himself."
In due course Strange returned. He offered Ambrose a note, still with
his deprecating air. It was in Colina's writing. Ambrose read:
"John Gaviller begs to inform Mr. Ambrose Doane that the only proposal
he is willing to discuss will be the sale to him of all the grain in
Mr. Doane's possession at one dollar and a half per bushel. In such an
event he will also be willing to purchase Mr. Doane's entire outfit of
goods at cost. It will be useless for Mr. Doane to address him further
in any other connection.
"Enterprise House, September 3."
Ambrose stood reflecting with the note in his hand. For a single
moment his heart failed him. His inexperience was appalled by the
weight of the decision he had to make.
Oh, for Peter Minot's strong, humorous sense at this crisis! The
thought of Peter nerved him. Peter had taken it for granted that he
would make good. Ambrose remembered the sacrifices Peter had
cheerfully made to finance this expedition.
To accept John Gaviller's contemptuous offer would not only be to
confess a humiliating failure, it would mean pocketing a loss that
would cripple the young firm for the time being.
Peter would say: "Lose it if you must, but lose it fighting." This
thought was like an inspiration to Ambrose. His jaw stiffened, and a
measure of serenity returned to his eyes. He passed the note to Simon.
"Read it," he said coolly, "and save it. It may be useful as evidence,
later."
A subtle change passed over Gordon Strange's face. For the moment he
was pure Indian. Quickly veiling his eyes, he asked with an innocent
air: "What does Mr. Gaviller say?"
This was too much for Ambrose to stomach. "You know damned well what
he says!" he answered scornfully.
Strange swallowed it. "Is there any answer?" he asked.
"No!" said Ambrose.
The half-breed's curiosity overcame his prudence. "What are you going
to do?" he asked slyly.
Ambrose strode out of the store without answering.
The two men paddled back to Grampierre's place in silence. Simon with
native tact, forbore to ask questions. Such is the potency of the
white man's eye that the leader of the breeds had unhesitatingly
yielded the direction of affairs to the youth who was little more than
a third of his age.
Upon landing, Ambrose pointed to the lookout bench. "Let us sit there
and talk," he said.
"Simon," he said immediately, "suppose it came to a fight, how many men
do you think Gaviller could count on?"
The old man took the question as a matter of course. "There is the
policeman, the doctor and the parson," he said. "The parson is best
for praying. There is the engineer and the captain of the steamboat;
there is young Duncan Greer.
"In summer he is purser on the steamboat; in winter he is the miller.
That is six white men. John Gaviller is no good yet. There is the
crew of the steamboat, and the men who work for wages, maybe fifteen
natives, not more."
"What sort of a man is Greer?" asked Ambrose.
"A lad; full of fun and jokes; a good machinist."
"Where does he sleep at the Fort?"
"He has a room in the old quarters. Gaviller's old house."
"Does he sleep alone?"
"He does."
"Simon," said Ambrose, finally, "can you get me twenty-five good men by
dark; steady men with cool heads, who will do what I tell them?"
"I can," said Simon.
"Let them meet at your house," Ambrose went on. "Let every man carry
his gun, but you must see that the magazines are emptied, and that no
man has any shells in his pocket. I will have no shooting. Above all,
do not let the Indians know that anything is going on to-night."
"It is well!" said Simon laconically. The old dark eyes gleamed.