FIRE AND RAPINE.
The Kakisas ran down the trail like a heap of dry leaves propelled by a
squall of wind. To Ambrose it all seemed as senseless and unreal as a
nightmare.
The alarm had been given at a moment of extreme emotional excitement,
and restraint was thrown to the winds. It was like a rout after battle.
The men shouted; the women wailed and forgot their children. The
throng was full of lost children; they fell by the road and lay
shrieking.
Ambrose never forgot the picture as he ran, of an old crone, crazed by
excitement, whirling like a dervish, rocking her skinny arms and
twisting her neck into attitudes as grotesque as gargoyles.
The trail they covered was a rough wagon-road winding among patches of
poplar scrub and willow. Issuing out upon the wide clearing which
contained their village they saw afar the little storehouse burning
like a torch, and redoubled their cries.
They swept past the teepees without stopping, the biggest ones in the
van, the little ones tailing off and falling down and getting up again
with piteous cries.
Reaching the spot, all could see there was nothing to be done. The
shack was completely enveloped in names. There were not half a dozen
practicable water-pails in the tribe, and anyhow the fire was a good
furlong from the river.
Ambrose, seeing what a start it had got, guessed that it was no
accident. It had been set, and set in such a way as to insure the
shack's total destruction. He considered the sight grimly.
The mystery he had first scented that morning was assuming truly
formidable proportions. He believed that Watusk was a party to it; but
he could not conceive of any reason why Watusk should burn up his
people's bread.
There was nothing to be done, and the people ceased their cries. They
stood gazing at the ruby and vermilion flames with wide, charmed eyes.
Among the pictures that this terrible night etched with acid on
Ambrose's subconsciousness, the sight of them standing motionless, all
the dark faces lighted by the glare, was not the least impressive.
With a sickening anxiety he perceived the signs of a rising savage
rage. The men scowled and muttered. More than once he heard the
words: "John Gaviller!" Men slipped away to the teepees and returned
with their guns.
Ambrose looked anxiously for Watusk. He could not reach the people
except through the man he distrusted.
He found him by himself in a kind of retreat among some poplars a
little way off, where he could see without being seen. Ambrose dragged
him back willy-nilly, adjuring him by the way.
"The people are working themselves into a rage. They speak of
Gaviller. You and I have got to prevent trouble. You must tell them
Gaviller is a hard man, but he keeps the law. He did not do this
thing. This is the act of another enemy."
"What good tell them?" said Watusk sullenly. "They not believe."
"You are their leader!" cried Ambrose. "It's up to you to keep them
out of trouble. If you do not speak, whatever happens will be on your
head! And I will testify against you. Tell the people to wait until
to-morrow and I pledge myself to find out who did this."
"You know who did it?" asked Watusk sharply.
"I will not speak until I have proof," Ambrose said warily.
"What happened to the men you left on guard?"
"They say they play jack-pot with a lantern near the door," said
Watusk. "See not'ing. Hear not'ing. Poof! she is all burn!"
"H-m!" said Ambrose.
They were now among the people.
"Speak to them!" he cried. "Tell them if they keep quiet Ambrose Doane
will pay for the flour that is burned up, and will grind them some
more. Tell them to wait, and I promise to make things right. Tell
them if they make trouble to-night the police will come and take them
away, and their children will starve!"
Watusk did, indeed, move among the men speaking to them, but with a
half-hearted air. He cut a pitiful figure. It was not clear whether
he was unwilling to oppose them or afraid.
Ambrose did not even know what Watusk was saying to them. At any rate
the men ignored their leader. Ambrose was wild at the necessity which
made him dependent on such a poor creature.
He followed Watusk, imploring them in English to keep their heads.
Some of the sense of what he said must have reached them through his
tones and gestures, but they only turned sullen, suspicious shoulders
upon him.
That Ambrose should take the part of his known enemy, John Gaviller,
seemed to their simple minds to smack of double-dealing.
The roof of the burning shack fell in, sending a lovely eruption of
sparks to the black sky. At the same moment as if by a signal one of
the savages brandished his gun aloft and broke into a passionate
denunciation.
Once more Ambrose heard the name of Gaviller. Instantly the crowd was
in an uproar again. Cries of angry approval answered the speaker from
every throat. The man was beside himself. He waved his gun in the
direction of the river.
Ambrose waited to hear no more. He saw what was coming. Black horror
faced him. He ran to the river, straining every nerve. He heard them
behind him. Then it was that he so bitterly reproached himself for
having left the york boat within reach.
Leaping down the bank, he put his back under the bow and struggled to
push it off. He would gladly have sacrificed it. It was too heavy for
him to budge. Tole Grampierre and Greer reached his side.
"Quick!" cried Ambrose breathlessly. "Set her adrift!"
But at that moment the whole tribe came pouring over the bank like a
flood. Ambrose and the breed sprang into the bow of the boat in an
endeavor to hold it against them. Old Simon presently joined them.
"Back! Back!" cried Ambrose. "For God's sake listen to me, men! Go
to your lodges and talk until morning. The truth will be clear in the
daylight! The police are coming. They will give you justice.
"Justice is on your side now. If you break the white man's law he will
wipe you out! Where is your leader? He knows the truth of what I say.
Watusk is not here! He won't risk his neck!"
It had about as much effect as a trickle of water upon a conflagration.
They made no attempt to dislodge Ambrose from in front, but swarmed
into the water on either side, and putting their backs under the boat,
lifted her off the stones. Scrambling over the sides, they shouldered
Ambrose and the breed ashore from behind.
Ambrose shouted to the breeds: "Go home and stay there all night. You
must not be mixed up in this."
"What will you do?" cried Simon.
The york boat was already floating off, the crew running out the
sweeps. Ambrose, without answering, ran into the water and clambered
aboard. In the confusion and the dark the Indians could not tell if he
were white or red.
He made himself inconspicuous in the bow. His only conscious thought
was how to get a gun. He had no idea of what to do upon landing.
Upon pushing off, moved by a common instinct of caution, the Indians
fell silent, and during the crossing there was no sound but the
grumbling of the clumsy sweeps in the thole-pins, and the splash of the
blades.
Standing on the little platform astern, silhouetted against the sky,
Ambrose recognized the man who had given the word to attack Gaviller.
He marked him well. He was of middle size, a tall man among the little
Kakisas, with a great shock of hair cut off like a Dutchman's at the
neck.
On the way over Ambrose was greatly astonished to feel his sleeve
gently plucked. He studied the men beside him, and finally made out
Tole under his flaring hatbrim.
Into his ear he whispered: "I told you to go home."
"I go with you," Tole whispered back. "I your friend."
Ambrose's anxious heart was warmed. He needed a friend. He gripped
Tole's shoulder.
"Have you a gun?" he asked.
The breed shook his head.
"Get guns for us both if you can," said Ambrose.
On the other side, the instant the york boat touched the shingle, the
Indians set up a chorus of yelling frightful to hear, and scrambled
ashore.
Ambrose and Tole were among the first out. Together they drew aside a
little way into the darkness to see what would happen. There was no
need to warn the Company people; the yelling did that.
The Indians set off across the beach and up the bank, working
themselves up with their strident, brutish cries. The habits of thirty
years of peace were shed like a garment. The young men of the tribe
had never heard the war-cry until that moment.
Ambrose followed at their heels. At the top of the bank, to his
unbounded relief, they turned toward the store. He still had a little
time. All he could do was to offer himself to the defenders.
"I'm going to the side door of Gaviller's house," he said to Tole.
"Get guns for us, somehow, and come to me there."
He knew that Tole, who was as dark as the Kakisas, and in no way
distinguished from them in dress, ran little risk of discovery in the
confusion.
There was no sign of life about the post; every window was dark. The
Indians swarmed across the quadrangle without meeting any one.
As Ambrose reached the fence around Gaviller's house he heard the
store-door and the windows go in with a series of crashes. He crouched
beside the gate to wait for Tole. It was useless for him to offer
himself without a weapon.
They started a fire outside the store. Fed with excelsior and empty
boxes, the flames leaped up instantaneously, illuminating every corner
of the quadrangle, and throwing gigantic, distorted shadows of men on
the store front.
On the nearer side of the fire the silhouettes darted back and forth
with the malignant activity of demons in a pit. Men issued out of the
store with armfuls of goods that they flung regardless to the flames.
Already they were dressing themselves up in layer after layer of
clothes until they no longer resembled human creatures. What they
could not wear they hung about their necks.
Some came out tearing at food like wolves. Others darted into dark
corners of the square to hide their prizes. A man appeared dressed in
a woman's wrapper and hat, and capered around the fire to the
accompaniment of shrieks of obscene laughter.
There was a continuous sound of rending and crashing from within the
store. The trader in Ambrose groaned to witness the destruction of
good weapons and cloth stuffs and food. Some one would suffer for the
lack of it in the winter.
Within the store, by the door, a furious altercation arose. This was
where the case of cheap jewelry stood. Two men rolled out on the
platform fighting.
Ambrose saw a raised arm, and the gleam of steel. After a few moments
one of the men got up and the other lay still. Thereafter, all who
went in and came out stepped indifferently over his body.
Ambrose gazed fascinated and oddly unmoved. It was like a horrible
play in a theater. The insane yelling rose and fell intermittently.
At last Ambrose saw a man detach himself from the group and run around
the square, darting behind the houses for cover. The runner reappeared
nearer to him, and he saw that it was Tole. He came to him, running
low under shelter of the palings. He thrust a rifle into Ambrose's
hands.
"Loaded!" he gasped. "Plenty more shells in my pocket."
"Did you hear any talk?" asked Ambrose. "Are they coming over here?"
"Talk no sense," said Tole. "Only yell. It is moch bad. They got
whisky."
"Whisky!" echoed Ambrose, aghast.
"A big jug. It was in the store."
Ambrose's heart sank. "Come," he said grimly.