AT FORT GOOD HOPE
At Fort Good Hope on the big river, the free trader Andrew Gault and his
financial backer David Ogilvie, stood by the flagpole concluding their
business, while the steam-launch _Courier_ waited in the stream below to
carry Ogilvie down river.
Outside of the towns, Fort Good Hope was the most enterprising and
progressive Post in that country. The original log buildings were now
used as bunk-houses for the half-breed employees; while on one side rose
the magnificent dwelling of the trader, built of clapboards in the
“outside” style and having fancy porches with turned pillars; and on the
other side the equally modern store with plate glass windows imported at
God knows what expense and trouble; and a huge sign. This sign was the
occasion of considerable humor throughout the country, since there was
nobody who required to be told whose store it was.
This was by no means all of the improvements at Fort Good Hope. Gault
had built and now operated a steamboat on the river, which connected
with a line of wagons across the ninety-mile portage to Caribou Lake,
and so kept him in touch with the world. By means of the steamboat he
had imported an electric light plant, a sawmill and a steam process mill
for grinding and bolting flour. The land along the river was rich, and
Gault had established farmers there. They were only frozen out about one
year in three; and that was their loss, not Gault’s. His flour, raised
and milled on the spot, he was able to sell to the Indians at an
enormous profit.
In spite of all this, when Gault made up his accounts with Ogilvie, the
financier pursed up his mouth in a grudging fashion, and Gault who was a
bitter, proud man, ground his teeth with rage.
“Your improvements are fine, fine,” said Ogilvie dryly; “the Post looks
almost like a village on the railway. But my dear man, all this only
returns a beggarly ten or fifteen per cent on the investment. I need not
point out to you that our company is accustomed to receive two profits
on every transaction. In other words we do not want the cash that you
remit to us; we want fur. And I’m sorry to see that your consignments of
fur have been growing less every year.”
The trader was silent out of anger; and Ogilvie went on: “The history of
all the old posts is the same. With the advance of civilization the fur
is always retreating. With your steamboats and your sawmills you are
hastening the process, my dear Gault. At the other old posts as the fur
recedes they reach after it with sub-posts and trading stations. Why
don’t you do something of the sort? You are in a better strategic
position than any of them, because off to the northwest here you have a
vast land that is still written down unexplored on the maps. Why don’t
you get that fur?”
“As you know,” muttered Gault, “on the northwest I am blanketed by
Hector Blackburn.”
Ogilvie shrugged. “Why remain blanketed?” he asked.
“What do you propose?” asked Gault bitterly.
“Oh, the specific measures must be left to you,” said Ogilvie hastily.
“You are the man on the ground. But of course our company will back you
up in anything you undertake. The old rough stuff has gone out of
fashion, but the principle is the same. To put it bluntly, Gault: buy
him out or drive him out.”
“The entire resources of our company would not buy him out,” said Gault.
“The man is drunk with pride at having the name of the last free
trader.”
“Well then?” said Ogilvie meaningly.
“As to driving him out, I mean to do that; but I must await my
opportunity. He’s in an almost impregnable position.”
“Why did you let him get in such a position?” murmured Ogilvie. “You
were on the ground first.”
“He had all the luck,” said Gault bitterly.
“Why is his position so impregnable?”
“Well, for one thing he has a tribe of Indians completely under his
thumb. Those are the Slavis, the most ignorant and primitive race of
them all. Once they covered this whole country, but have gradually been
pushed back by the Crees and other tribes. They have some other name,
but I don’t know what it is. All the other Indians call them Slavis.
Well, Blackburn has got this people penned up in his own country, where
no whites can communicate with them. He deliberately trades on their
ignorance and superstition. He has persuaded them that I am a devil and
that black magic is worked at this Post, and no power under Heaven can
persuade them to come within fifty miles of me.”
Ogilvie laughed. “Not bad,” he said. “Why don’t you outbid him for fur?
That might work a miracle.”
“I have tried it,” said Gault grimly. “He is willing to go higher than
the company is willing to let me go.”
“But surely a year or two of that, with his ruinously expensive
transport would break him,” said Ogilvie.
“Blackburn is as rich as Crœsus,” said Gault bitterly; “and he’d risk
every cent of it to beat me. What is more, he is entirely independent of
transport. When they run out of food over there, he sends his cheaper
furs to me for flour, and I have to take them, because I need the fur.
Blackburn trades horses for fur. He has in the triangle between his
river, the foothills and the Mud River, a vast natural range for horses.
God knows how many thousands of head he has. The fame of them has spread
all over the country. He can afford to sell them cheap since they cost
him nothing. The Sikannis Indians bring their fur all the way from
British Columbia to trade for horses. The Indians from Wabiscaw and
eastward cross the river here right under my nose, carrying their fur to
Blackburn for horses.”
“You say you are awaiting your opportunity,” said Ogilvie; “how will you
know when that comes?”
“I have a spy at Blackburn’s Post,” said Gault. “It wasn’t easy to find
him, because nobody can speak their damned language but Blackburn. This
man, Etzooah, is the son of a Cree father and a Slavi mother, and is
able to mix with the Slavis as one of themselves.”
“What good do you expect that to do you?”
“Etzooah talks to the Slavis in my interest. However, that is not what I
am counting on.” Gault smiled disagreeably. “Blackburn is a headstrong,
passionate man, and a hard drinker. He treats the Slavis like dogs. He
believes there is nobody to call him to account. Some day he will go too
far. Then I’ll have the law on him. He runs his whole show
single-handed. Won’t tolerate a white man near him. Consequently if he
were removed, even for a while, the whole thing would fall into
confusion. That will be my chance.”
“I have heard there was a daughter,” said Ogilvie idly.
“Yes, a black-haired she-devil in her father’s own image!” said Gault.
“Well, good-by until next Spring,” said Ogilvie. “I wish you every
success. If Blackburn were out of the way this would be the greatest
Post in the country.” He looked around him with assumed regret. “You
have made so many improvements it would be a pity if we had to close you
out. But of course we must have the fur. . . . Good-by. . . . Good-by.
. . .”
Gault watched him go with rage and bitterness making his heart black.
Damn all financiers and officials who fattened on the labors of better
men than themselves! Gault had not told him the full history of his
relations with Hector Blackburn; but no doubt Ogilvie knew anyhow, for
it was common gossip throughout the fur country; how Gault and Blackburn
had come to grips a dozen times during the past twenty years, and Gault
had been invariably and humiliatingly worsted. He too, was a ruthless
and determined man, and when he thought over these things it was almost
more than he could bear.
* * * * *
Andrew Gault was a bachelor, living alone in his monstrosity of a yellow
clapboarded house. A handsome, lean, grizzled man in his early fifties,
with a cold and polished manner that one would hardly expect to find in
a fur-trader. It was a point of pride with Gault never to allow himself
to go slack. For all he was seven hundred miles from town, his house was
well-furnished, his servants well-trained. These last were of the Cree
tribe, a handsomer and more intelligent race than the miserable Slavis,
but not so manageable.
Some days after the visit of Ogilvie, Gault, having finished his
breakfast, remained sitting at the table, gloomily staring at the cloth,
and abstractedly crumbling pellets of bread. His mind was forever
traveling the same weary round without finding a way out. Thoughts of
Hector Blackburn poisoned his very being. How to get back at him; how to
ruin him. Ah! his enemy seemed to be intrenched at every point!
Blackburn could laugh at him. Stronger measures must be taken now, for
certain ruin stared Gault in the face. Somehow, Blackburn’s own weapons
must be turned against him. Could not the ignorant Slavis be incited to
rebellion? They must have their own medicine men or conjurers, and these
fellows could generally be bought. He, Gault, must get hold of Etzooah
before the next fur season set in.
Toma, Gault’s old house-servant entered the room. He was excited. “Wah!
Man come from Blackburn’s Post,” he announced.
To Gault this had the effect of a miracle. He sprang to his feet. “What
man?” he cried.
“Name Etzooah,” said Toma.
“Bring him to me! Bring him to me!” shouted Gault. “Let none else come
in until I call.”
Toma shuffled out of the room, and Gault had time to compose himself. It
was very bad policy of course, for a white man to betray his emotion
before a native. The trader reseated himself.
Etzooah came sidling around the door, awe-struck at finding himself
admitted to the great house, and exhibiting a witless grin. He was a
small man with a bullet head set between muscular shoulders. His thick
coarse hair was cut straight across his forehead in the Slavi style, and
straight around at his neck behind. He wore good store clothes with a
gay worsted sash about his middle. For business reasons the spy affected
an air of good-natured, giggling imbecility, which would deceive nobody
who knew the Indians. His little eyes were as quick and sharp as a
weasel’s.
“What news?” asked Gault curtly.
“Blackburn is dead,” said Etzooah, laughing heartily and silently.
Gault caught his breath. For an instant he lost all self-control. The
upper part of his body sprawled across the table; his eyes seemed to
start from his head. “Dead?” he gasped; “dead? . . . You are sure?”
“I see him die,” said Etzooah, with silent pantomime of delight. “Him
black horse jomp over high cut-bank. Him neck broke. Him drown
afterwards. When him pull out of river him head loose lak a berry on the
bush.” Etzooah illustrated.
A shock of joy does not kill. Gault stood up straight and arrogant; a
warm color came into his pale cheeks, and his eyes shone like a boy’s
again. “By God! this news is good to my ears!” he cried. “You shall
never go hungry, Etzooah. . . . When did it happen?”
“Two days,” said Etzooah. “At noon spell. Right away I tak’ two horses;
ride all night. Only stop for one little sleep yesterday.”
“Did anybody know you came?”
“No. I sneak away.”
“Hm!” said Gault stroking his chin. “Then they’ll know that you were my
man all the time. . . . Oh, what does it matter now! Everything is in my
hands. . . . Had Blackburn sent his fur out yet?”
“No. Roundin’ up pack horses when him kill.”
“Then that is _my_ fur now! . . . What will the Slavis do without their
master?”
Etzooah shrugged expressively. “No can tell. Slavis lak crazy children.
Not know what they do. Maybe they run wild now; kill the girl and steal
the store goods. No can tell.”
Gault’s face darkened. “By God!” he cried. “If the Slavis get out of
hand, it would bring in the police. I don’t want the police nosing into
this. I will ride back to-day. Toma! Toma! . . . You, Etzooah, eat in my
kitchen, and take a sleep. . . . Toma, you——————!”
The old man came shuffling in.
“Fetch Moale from the store. Bestir yourself! Afterwards get out my
riding-suit, my saddlebags, my traveling blankets, and all things
necessary for a journey!”
Joe Moale was the “bookkeeper” at Fort Good Hope, otherwise Gault’s
second in command. Technically a white man, a flavor of the red race
clung about him; he was probably a quarter breed. He was reputed to be a
relative of Gault’s. An educated man, as able and intelligent as any
white man in the company’s employ, he was as inscrutable as an Indian.
He was a well-built man of middle height, not uncomely in his wooden
fashion. It was impossible to guess his exact age, but he was much
younger than the trader. He served Gault with absolute and unquestioning
faithfulness, but there was no affection in the glance that he bent on
his master. With true redskin patience he was waiting for Gault to die.
“Blackburn is dead!” cried Gault, striding up and down in his dark
exultation.
“The news has already spread about the Post,” said Moale, unmoved.
“Can we both get away together?” asked Gault.
“Why not? The fur is all in. At this season Claggett can keep the
store.”
“Then I want you to come with me. We must start within an hour. Round up
the four smartest lads you can put your hands on, and a dozen of our
best horses. We must make a good appearance, you understand. Six of us
will be more than enough to handle the beggarly Slavis. . . . Blackburn
is dead!” he cried for the mere pleasure of repeating the words. “And
his business is ours!”
“What will you do about the girl?” asked Moale stolidly.
“Oh, a miss of eighteen,” said Gault contemptuously. “She will give me
no trouble . . . I’ll be her guardian, her trustee,” he added with a
satanic smile.
“She’ll be rich,” said Moale.
“Not when I’m through with her.”
“I’m not referring to the Post, nor the horses,” said Moale. “Blackburn
sends out near a hundred thousand dollars worth of fur per annum. He
don’t import but a fraction of that in goods. The balance must be salted
down somewhere.”
Gault stopped and stared. A new light of cupidity broke in his face.
“Why, sure!” he said, a little bemused with the glittering picture that
rose before his mind’s eye. “My mind must be wandering! Shouldn’t wonder
if it amounted to a million! . . .” He went on muttering to himself: “It
would be the best way anyhow. Nobody could question what I did then. And
I shouldn’t be doing it for the company neither but for myself!” His
voice suddenly rang out. “By God! I’ll marry the girl!”
Going to the sideboard, he examined his face anxiously in the mirror.
“Joe,” he said, “if you didn’t know my age, how old would you call me?”
Whatever Moale’s thoughts might have been, he concealed them. “About
thirty-eight,” he said.
“Hardly that,” said Gault confidently. “If it wasn’t for the gray in my
hair I could pass for thirty-five easy. I wish to God I could lay my
hands on some hair dye.”
“I can make a good black dye out of nutgalls,” said Moale.
“Well, go to it!” cried Gault. “Get a move on you now. We must sleep at
Blackburn’s Post to-morrow night . . . Oh, my God! suppose we were to
find that the Slavis had got out of hand and murdered the girl!”