By the time that the evening sun, slanting westwards to the Pacific,
which roared on wild beaches sixteen miles away, shone into the
western end of the Mill, Pete had worked the anger out of his heart
as healthy children of the earth must do. The song of the Mill was
no longer angry or menacing: it became a harmony and was even sweet.
Work went beautifully: the logs were sweet-cutting spruce for the
most part, or splendid pine, or odorous red cedar, and one precious
log of white cedar. The saws ran easy and their filed teeth were
sharp: the Hoes said "We can do, we can do," and the Pony Saw piped
cleanly and clear, while the Trimmers, though they cut across the
grain, cut most swiftly, and said, "Gee whiz, gee whiz." Young
Willett was pleased to get the Big Trimmer and Wong most proud to run
the Chinee one, which by its name certainly belonged of old to some
Chinaman, perhaps now in the country of Green Tea and Bamboos, and
forgetful of his ancient toil in alien lands. The engines, too, ran
well and the sawdust carriers did not break down, and no belt parted,
and nobody but Ginger White said much that was uncivil, and if he
went no further than that no one minded him any more than they minded
the weather or the wind.
So as things went sweetly, Pete's heart grew sweet and he was sorry
he had kicked at Jenny's legs as she lay under the table, and sorry
he had torn up the pretty silk. After all it was natural enough that
Quin should give her something, and it was natural he wanted her.
But of course he couldn't get her, for she was virtuous and had a
Bible, and knew religion, and believed that Lejaub, or the diable,
would take anyone who was not virtuous. Both the Catholic and the
English priests said that, so it must be true. And, if she had
denied having the dress, he owned that he had often frightened her
and it was natural for her to say she hadn't got it, poor toketie
Jenny. He nobly determined to forgive her and say no more about it.
And then the exultant whistle declared with a hoot that the work was
over for the day, and the engines stopped and the saws whirred and
whined and drawled and yawned and stood still while the workers
clattered out, laughing and quite happy.
Oh, but it's good to be strong and well and to have work, but to have
none and thereby to get to cease to love it is very bad, oh, very bad
indeed. Let the wise know this, as the unwise and ignorant who
labour know it in their hearts and in their hands.
"Oho," said Pete as he strode across the yard, "oho!"
He was nobly determined to forgive. He would go in to Jenny and say,
"Look here, Jenny, I forgive you because you tell that lie, that
kliminwhit. I forgive you, but you be good, kloshe, tell your man no
more kliminwhit."
He came to his silent shack and didn't notice that no smoke, no
cooking smoke, came from its low chimney. He marched in bent on
forgiveness, and found the front room empty.
"She still cly about that silk," said Pete uneasily. He hesitated a
moment before he opened the inner door and called to her.
"Jenny, Jenny."
Silence answers you, Pete, silence and two empty rooms with a table
upset, and some few rags of dirtied silk still left by the predaceous
fingers or claws of the vulturine Annie.
"She velly closs, go out with some other klootchman," said Pete.
"Damn, I beat her again."
It was very hard indeed that he, the Man, should come in ready for
forgiveness and good advice with regard to future lies, and should
find no one meekly ready to accept pardon and to promise rigid truth
in future: it was very hard indeed, and Pete's brows contracted and
his heart was outraged.
"Now I not forgive," said Pete. "She not here, no muckamuck ready
and I so olo, so hungry."
He saw the steak that poor Jenny had cooked for his dinner. It lay
upon the floor, as she had lain on it. It was trodden and filthy and
Pete kicked it spitefully. He saw an old rag of a dress that was
Jenny's. It was the one she had discarded for Annawillee's horrid
yellow rag of quarantine, which said, "I'm Annawillee, be wise and
don't come near me." She had changed at Annie's, but Annie brought
it back and put it in sight. For she was a spiteful devil.
"What for?" said Pete. A dull fear entered his heart which did not
dispossess his anger. "What for: kahta she leave dless?"
It was a "dless" indeed. But she did not need it then. There were
certain beautiful garments at Quin's house, and there would be more.
"I'll kick her when I find her," said Pete. He ran out and went
straight to the next shack, to Indian Annie's den.
He found her and Annawillee, and both were drunk, but not yet too
drunk for speech, or for the discretion of the arranged lie.
"You see Jenny?" he demanded.
Annie lifted her claws to heaven and moaned.
"I so sorry, Pete, Jenny bad klootchman!"
"What you mean, you old devil?" roared Pete, in horrid fear.
"I tell you delate, I tell you, Pete. She klatawa with--with----"
His jaw dropped.
"She go with Shipman Jack to Victoly in piah-ship," said Annie,
hiccupping. "I see her, Annawillee see her."
"I see, nika nanitsh Jenny klatawa with Jack," puked Annawillee.
"She klatawa in piah-ship, she go Victoly."
She was hugging a bottle to her pendant breasts as she told her lie.
But she believed it by now, and kept on repeating "to Victoly, an' to
California in piah-ship with Shipman Jack, inati chuck; acloss water."
"Oh, God," said Pete. He was a dirty white colour. His lips hung
down.
"She tikegh Jack velly much," said Annie, "love him very much, and
cly and say him good man, not beat her and tear her dless. She much
aflaid of you, Pete. She cly and go away."
"She cly and go away," chimed in Annawillee, weeping tears of awful
alcohol. She was so sorry for everyone, and for herself and Jenny
and Pete and all the world. "I cly, I cly!"
She sobbed and drank, and still Pete stood there, very sick at heart.
"My pretty tenas klootchman," he murmured, "oh, hell, what I do?"
"You hab dlink," said Annie, holding him up the bottle. He took it,
put it to his mouth, and drank half a pint of fiery stuff that nearly
skinned his throat. He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and
turned away back to his empty shack.
"I will kill Jack," he said, "I, I, kill Jack!"
He saw the world in a haze: the Mill danced darkly before his eyes,
dark against a golden sunset, his brain reeled, and when he came to
his own door he fell inside and lay insensible.
"Pete dlink too much, he gleedy beast," said Annie. But Annawillee
nursed her empty bottle to her bosom and said foolishly--
"I see--nika nanitsh Jenny klatawa, oh, hyu keely Annawillee."
And the night presently came down, and as the shacks lighted up it
was told among all the Siwashes and the Chinkies and the White Men of
ten Nations that Jenny, pretty Jenny, tenas toketie Jenny, had
"scooted" with Shipman Jack across the water to Victoria, to
California, to China, oh, to hell-an'-gone somewhere!
"To Hell and Gone out of this," they said. And Spanish Joe sang to
the guitar a bitter little song about someone's señora who fled
across the sea, and Chihuahua grinned at Jack's luck (Annawillee did
not tell him the truth), and the Whites, Long Mac, and Shorty Gibbs
and Tenas Billy and even young Tom Willett, who knew nothing about
klootchmen, though some had their eye on him hopefully, said there
was no knowing what any woman would do. They understood that men
would do what they had a mind to.
"Anyhow," said Shorty, "she was a dern sight too pretty for a
golderned Siwash like Pete. Someone wuz sure to kapswalla her sooner
or later. If I wuz given to klootchmen, which I ain't, thank the
Lord, I'd ha' put in for her myself."
But to think of such a coyoté as Jack Mottram picking up the Pearl of
the River!
"It would sicken a hog," said Shorty Gibbs.