It was all very well for George Quin, who had brought all the trouble
on himself by running after other people's klootchmen, to say the
police were fools, but as a matter of fact they had done as much as
could be expected of them, and perhaps more, seeing that Quin wasn't
very popular with them. His Mill with its Shack-Town gave them more
trouble than the whole of the City, and within a year two "damn
plismen," as Annie called them, had been laid out cold with clubs in
its vicinity. And nobody had gone into the penitentiary for the
murderous assaults. Nevertheless they had searched every likely hole
and corner for Pete, from his old native hang-out, Pitt River, down
to the Serpentine and beyond it. They had beaten the brush along
both sides of the Fraser, North and South Arm and the Island. And,
indeed, they came within a throw of the dice of catching Pete. One
of them missed him and his canoe by a hair's-breadth, and the Sitcum
Siwash had been about to cave in and show himself when the man turned
aside.
As it was, the very search for Pete worked him up to desperation just
as he was beginning to get cold on revenge and to think rather of
escape. If the police were so keen as to search the brush and go up
and down the river, how was he to get away? Like most of his sort he
didn't know the country, and would have been puzzled to get even as
far as Whatcom. And even if he did there would be someone waiting
for him. And to go down stream in the dug-out would be to run right
into a trap, like a salmon. His rage began to burn in him again, and
to this was added hunger. He had over a hundred dollars in his
pocket but hadn't eaten for four-and-twenty hours. He would have
given his soul for a square meal and a long drink, and as hunger bit
him he knew that if he lingered any longer mere famine would induce
him to give himself up. Then he would be hanged, and get nothing
more than he had got already as the price of his neck. When the
second night fell he was wholly desperate.
"I fix heem to-night, or they catch me," said Pete. "One ting or the
other, Pete, my boy!"
If he only could get a drink! With a drink inside him he would be
equal to anything. He wondered if he dare trust any of his old
tilikums of the Mill. He thought of Chihuahua and of Chihuahua's
klootchman, Annawillee, and then of old Annie. They would give him
away for a dollar; he knew that, and very likely there was a price on
his head. If poor old Skookum hadn't been killed he would have done
anything for him. Pete was very sorry he had killed Skookum, very
sorry indeed.
But he kept on thinking about that drink. If there was one woman or
man in Shack-Town who always managed to have liquor in her shanty, it
was old Annie.
"I'd choke her for it," said Pete, as he shoved off in his dug-out
and paddled lightly against the last of the flood coming in from the
great Pacific. "I'd choke her for it."
The night was moonless and cloudy and as dark as it ever gets on the
Fraser in summer. There was even a touch of an easterly wind about,
and the faint chill of it made him shiver. Without a drink he felt
almost hopeless.
"I try," said Pete in sudden desperation. The lights were out all
over the town. Hardly a solitary lamp starred the opposing darkness
of the hill above the river. The world was asleep. There was only a
moving lamp in the Mill. He knew it belonged to the night-watchman,
a sleepy-headed old German, once a worker in the Planing Mill with
old Papp. But since he lost his hand he had been made night-watchman.
"I give heem plenty light by-by," said Pete. He slanted across the
river and came to an old deserted rotten wharf a little above the
Mill. There in the black shadow he ran his canoe ashore and stepped
into the mud. He crept silently to where the shore shelved, and,
climbing up, thrust his head out between some broken flooring of the
wharf. The world was quiet as a tomb. There was even peace in
Shack-Town. Whether he got that drink or not he had business there
that night. Though Chihuahua most likely wouldn't give him a drink,
Pete meant to make the Mexican help him. For at the back of
Chihuahua's shanty, which was only a one-room hiding hole, there was
a little outhouse. In that Chihuahua always kept some kerosene.
Pete slipped across the road like a shadow, dodging among the piles
of lumber as he went. His senses were as alert as a cougar's. And
the sawdust under foot made his steps soundless. On the other side
of the road he waited to be sure that no one moved. There was only
one light in Shack-Town, and it was at Annie's. That meant that she
was either awake or had fallen asleep drunk on the floor, forgetful
of her lamp. Perhaps she had a bottle, said Pete thirstily. He felt
cold and nervous and forgot about the kerosene. He ran lightly
across the road and came to Annie's. He had a sheath knife in his
belt. It had once belonged to Jack Mottram, but Pete had stolen it.
He had no intention of using it on Annie, that is unless he had to,
of course. He carried a heavy stick in his hand.
He looked into Annie's window, which was naturally enough foul within
and without. He saw nothing at first but the dim light of the lamp,
but as everything was quiet he rubbed the glass of one pane with his
cap. Then he saw that Annie was lying on the floor, a mere bundle of
rags. Was that a bottle by her?
You bet it was, tilikum! Pete knew a bottle when he saw it. Perhaps
by good luck it wasn't empty. He shortened the club in his hand and
tapped lightly on the door with it. Annie never moved. He pushed
the door open, and still she didn't move. He crept in like a cat
until he could reach out and touch the bottle. It lay on its side
and the cork was out. Nevertheless, a bottle can hold quite a good
drink in it even on its side. It was as full as it could be in such
a position, and careless of the silent woman he drank it to its fiery
dregs. Hot life ran through his veins. It was fire: such fire as
makes murder light and easy. He grinned happily and put the bottle
down again by Annie's limp hand.
His life ran warm within him and all his desire of vengeance grew in
alcohol as grass will grow in a warm rain of spring.
He found the kerosene in Chihuahua's little den, and started, not for
the Mill, but for George Quin's house.
"My klootchman, ha," said Pete fiercely. "She have a papoose!"
The papoose slumbered in his loving mother's arms. By her side big
George lay. The night was so sweet and quiet. If George could marry
her he would. Oh, wonderful, sorrowful world that it was. And here
was the world within her arms and within her reach.
"I just love Tchorch and baby!"
She woke and slept. Oh, heavenly night and heavenly day when baby
slept, or waked, or stared solemnly, as Indian blood will and must,
at the strange hard world that meets its wondering eyes.
The summer had been warm and rainless, everything was dry with the
good warmth of summer. The brush showed brown: the paths were white:
the lumber, whether in stacked piles or in framed houses, was ready
for fire. A spark would light it: a single match might cause a
conflagration as it would in a dry forest of red cedar or the
resinous spruce.
And Pete carried kerosene. He drenched a southern wall of boards
with it and laid against the wall dry brush and pieces of sawed
lumber that lay about from the building of the house. He knew the
wood must flame like tinder. If it ran unchecked for a minute it
would take the river to put it out. And it was high above the river.
He grinned and lighted a match.
The next minute he was running down the hill like a deer. In less
than a minute he dropped, still carrying the half-emptied kerosene
can, through the hole in the wharf. Then he waited and saw a warm
blaze high upon the hill.
"That fix heem and her," said Pete, intoxicated with his deed and
with the alcohol. "That teach heem, damn Shautch Quin, heh! I kill
his blother, heh, and burn his house!"
His heart was warm within him as fire. It seemed so good to be
revenged. Now they would wake, and perhaps would not escape. All
the world would wake and go up there, and then the Mill would be left
alone. Already the flame on the hill was so fierce that many must
see it.
And, indeed, many saw it, and some came running and there was a
growing sound of men, and far off he heard men call. And then from
up above there came the sound of firearms, used as an alarm. By this
he knew that Quin was up.
"I fix heem and now I fix his Mill;" said Pete hoarsely. He had
forgotten all they had told him of the scheme by which a man pays a
little so that he shall not lose all. What did it matter? The Mill
was Quin's, and he loved it. Pete knew that.
As all the town woke he dropped down stream in his canoe and came to
the Mill.
It was built, as all such are when they border on a river or any
water, partly on the land and partly on great piles sunk in the river
bed. The wharves, where scows and steamboats and schooners loaded
the lumber, were even further towards the deep water. At high tide a
boat could pass underneath them all, and get beneath the deep shadow
of the Mill. There fish played constantly, schools of little
candle-fish, the oolachan that the fur-seals love, that is so fat
that when it dries it drips oil. And there were places in the Mill
that dripped oil, as there are in all works where machinery moves
swiftly, and bearings are apt to grow hot. For many years the Mill
had never ceased to run, save when heavy frost fixed the moving river
in thick-ribbed ice, and it was saturated with all that burns. In
every crack dry sawdust lay that was almost explosive: the bearings
of belts were fat with oil. Pete knew it would burn like tinder,
like dry, dead resinous spruce, like the bark of red cedar.
As he moved in the darkness, over the sound of the lapping water he
heard the sound of the waking city. Where so much was built of wood,
fire was dreadfully interesting. He knew the world would wake and be
upon the hill. Now he saw the glimmer of the fire he had lighted
show a gleam upon the water under the sky. He laughed to himself
quietly, and, holding on to a pile, listened. Was there anyone above
him on the floor of the Mill? Or had even the watchman run to Quin's
house to help? He knew how fire drew a man, how it drew all men.
There was no sound above him. He ran his canoe into deeper darkness
and left it on the mud and climbed straight among crossing interlaced
timbers to the first floor, where the Shingler worked and laths were
made. He moved lightly, his feet in silent mocassins, and entered
the dark hole under the Chinee Trimmer. Above him was the chute by
which matched-flooring came down to the Chinamen, who carried it to
the Planers and the machines that worked it. He heard the hum of a
far-off crowd and saw the light of the burning house. He climbed
into the upper Mill. And as he thrust his head out of the chute at
the left hand of the Trimmer, then idle in the casing, he saw the
house itself through the great side chute of the Mill, down which he
had fallen the day he struck Quin with the pickareen.
The Mill was empty. He looked round cautiously and then leapt out
upon the floor. There was sufficient light for him to see by, and he
saw that some man had at least taken precautions against him. There
were buckets of water here and there: there was even a hose-pipe with
a pump, a force-pump. There was another hose coming from the
Engine-Room. These things showed him he had been feared: they showed
him it would be hard to get away. But he had no time to think. With
a savage grin he pulled out his knife and sliced the hose into
pieces. He capsized the buckets as they stood. Then he fetched his
oil-can from where he had put it, close to the Pony Saw, and emptied
it at a spot which he chose, because the oil would run upon the
sawdust carrier and go down past the fine cedar dust from the
Shingler. Below the Shingle Mill was the water. He knew exactly
where to find the spot where the oil would drip into the river. He
ran back to the chute by which he had ascended and as he slipped into
the chute he heard someone call.
"Hallo, Dutchy, Dutchy!" said a voice.
But Dutchy, the old one-handed German watchman, did not answer. Pete
heard him who spoke break out swearing.
"Goldarn the old idiot, I believe he ain't here," said the voice. It
was the voice of Long Mac, a man to be feared, a strong man, a keen
and quick man, a man with brains and skill and grit.
Pete heard him enter the Mill and run upstairs, and he knew that in
another moment Mac would know someone had been there, although old
Dutchy had done what he should not have done, and had left the Mill
to go to the other fire. There was no time to lose. He went
silently for the canoe, and found it, got into it, and worked his way
to the space under the Shingle Mill. Now the light of the burning
house was bright upon the lip of the river, running on the first of
the ebb against a warm Chinook wind.
He heard Mac burst out into blasphemy. He had found no Dutchy, but
cut hose instead. And then old Dutchy came running. He heard Mac
curse him.
"What did I tell you, you old fool? Didn't I say look out lively
here! That swine's about now, by God! He's cut the hose, maybe
lighted the Mill already!"
"Ach, mein Gott, mein Gott," said Dutchy, "I haf not been afay von
minute."
"Oh, to hell," said Mac.
He found the capsized buckets and burst out again. He spoke rapidly,
and Pete, as he clutched at a pile, caught but a word or two.
"Run--police--boat!"
He understood what this meant: if he didn't do it now, he would have
no time. At the sound of old Dutchy's steps on the boards as he ran
overhead Pete struck a match and lighted dripping kerosene. The
flame circled on a patch of board, and burnt blue and flickered,
drawing upward through a crack. The Mill was fired!
"I fix heem," said Pete; "if they catch me I fix heem all the same."
He thrust his canoe for the open water and then stayed aghast. It
seemed that the world was very light. His lip fell a little. And he
heard a voice speak overhead, a voice which was like a bow drawn at a
venture.
"I know you're about hyar, Pete," said Mac in a roar like that of a
wild beast. "I know you're hyar!"
He didn't know, but his instincts and his knowledge told him the
truth. Underneath him somewhere lay the incendiary. In some dark
hole or corner the beast of fire was hidden. Pete's heart stood
still and he knew what a fool he had been to meddle with aught on the
upper floor.
And he heard the light crackle of his new fire.
"Come out, you hound," cried Mac. And then the flame caught the
sawdust carrier and Mac saw the creep of light under a crack and knew
the Mill was fired--fired irredeemably and beyond hope. He pulled
his gun and shot down through the floor at a venture, and by a
wonderful chance the bullet cleared any beam and struck the water
close by Pete. The Siwash let go and thrust the dug-out into the
stream.
And in the Mill the fire was like an explosion. It ran along the
carriers and the ways of the belts and reached out into inaccessible
corners where lay the warm dust of years and grew up through a
thousand cracks like red-hot weeds at the breath of spring in a
tropic garden.
"Oh, my God," said Mac. The breath of the fire choked him: he ran
back from it: it burst up about him: to escape he leapt over it, but
before he got to the great Chute the flame spurted from beneath the
Big Hoes and licked at the teeth of shining steel. Then it played
about the Pony Saw and far off under the Bull-Wheel it grew up and
danced. Then it went like a fiery creeper, like a red climbing rose,
and touched the dusty roof. In the next moment the body of the Mill
was fire. Mac went back, missed his footing and slipped headlong
down the chute, even as Pete had once fallen. He rose with a shout
which was half a shriek, for he had dislocated his shoulder, and
folks running in the road to the lesser fire, turned to the greater
and saw the Mill ablaze.
And out in the river Pete was paddling hard. But the lamp that he
had lighted was a very bright one, that made the river suddenly a
golden pool and shone afar off on the other side of the white roof of
the Big Cannery. One man on the wharf saw him and called to Mac, who
came fast.
"By the Lord, that's Pete," said Mac, "that's Pete and my shoulder's
out. Get a boat, boys, get a boat! There's one under the wharf at
the other end. Get a boat and go after him!"
But to go out on the river at midnight after a killer and an
incendiary from mere love of the law or even of hunting was beyond
those who heard the man from Michigan speak.
"Oh, hell, not me! Tain't my funeral," they said. And then Quin
came running to them. He was white as the ashes of his house would
be on the morrow, but he saw what Mac and the others saw. That must
be Pete on the river!
"He's got us, Sir, he's got us," said Mas.
Even in that moment Quin saw how he held his arm.
"You're hurt?"
"I fell down the chute, Sir, the fire almost caught me."
The flames roared now. The inside of the Mill was a furnace. Fire
played fantastic games on the high sloping roof.
"There's a boat----"
"I know," said Quin.
"These hoosiers ain't game," said Mac.
A bigger crowd of those who weren't game to tackle wild beasts
gathered round them. Faces were white in the glow of the fire.
"At the house, Sir----"
"They're all right. I'll go after him," said Quin. He ran, and Mac
cried--
"Take my gun, Sir----"
But Quin did not hear him. He ran round the end of the Mill and was
lost.
In another moment they saw him in the boat out upon the river. Pete
went out of sight. The crowd watched till Quin was out of sight, too.
"What's the bettin' we'll see either of em' again?" asked a man in
the crowd.
The odds were against it.
"I fix heem all right," said Pete.