WITH CONACHER
Conacher’s spirits rose somewhat with the sun. It was impossible for a
healthy man to be altogether miserable under that tender, beaming sky.
The lovely, changing prospects of the parklike country through which
Blackburn’s River flowed, made the heart swell. Conacher loved, and was
loved in return. An apparition of the exquisite Loseis continually swam
before his eyes. He was anxious; but he kept saying to himself as a
civilized man will: Oh well, nothing serious can happen nowadays.
In the more open places, it was thrilling to see the long, laden train
of horses stretching ahead; winding over a ridge; trotting down into the
bottoms. The imagination was arrested by the thought of the riches
stored in that endless succession of brown packs. It was like a picture
to illustrate an old fairy tale. Thoughts of Aladdin and Sindbad flitted
through the young man’s mind. Riches!—not represented by a trifling row
of figures in a book, but visibly spread before his eyes. Come to think
of it, Aladdin married a princess, too. An insipid miss in bloomers
according to the pictures; nothing like the darkly vivid Loseis!
Among other directions for the journey, Loseis had warned Conacher not
to allow the Slavis to cross the river to loiter in their village. It
occurred to the young man that he would not be able to prevent this
while he brought up the tail of the procession, so he took advantage of
one of the river meadows to urge his horse to the head of the line. By
Tatateecha’s crestfallen look at his approach, he judged that he had
acted rightly. It was his first good look at the rotund, greasy little
head man of the Slavis. Tatateecha was better favored than the run of
the Slavis; but that was not saying much. He had a neat, Buster Brown
hair-cut, and a red fillet bound around his brow.
Tatateecha edged his horse out of the line, and fell back to consult
with the next man. They were like a pair of children conspiring
together, with sharp, calculating glances at Conacher. The white man
affected not to notice them. Presently Tatateecha came back to him all
smiles. Conacher had had no experiences of the Slavis, but he knew
something about the Indian nature in general. He’s going to try to put
something over on me now, he thought.
Tatateecha by means of animated signs conveyed to Conacher that his
village lay a short way ahead; and that it would be the best place to
spell. Splendid grass for the horses.
“Not on your life!” said Conacher, with vigorous pantomime of denial. He
indicated to Tatateecha that there would be no spell until the sun had
traveled a space equal to two hours.
The Slavi broke into speech; but Conacher had him at a disadvantage
there, by not understanding a word of it. The white man continued to
point to the sun. Tatateecha became aggrieved; almost tearful in his
protestations. Then, bringing his horse close to Conacher’s he signified
with a winning air, that he himself was perfectly willing to go further;
but the rest of the men would refuse to go at all, unless they were
permitted to say good-by to their families. Conacher replied by signs
that if they refused to go and fetch the grub and ammunition, when the
snow covered the ground there would be no grub, no meat, and the people
would starve. This argument was unanswerable, and Tatateecha fell back
sulking.
Shortly afterwards the village hove in sight across the river. The
people lined up on the edge of the bank yelling; and Conacher’s men
yelled back. All knew that the white man could not understand their
tongue; and Conacher guessed that they were making pretty free with him.
It was a trying situation; but he preserved his imperturbable air.
The river issued out of the lake by means of a wide, shallow, brawling
rapid. At the present high stage of water, there was but one possible
place to ford, and this could not be managed even on horseback without
danger of a wetting. At the point where the trail forked, Conacher
backed his horse into the arm which ran down the bank, and held him
there blocking the way. The Slavis jabbered angrily from one to another;
the whole train was brought to a stand.
Tatateecha approached Conacher to expostulate. The white man pointed
with his whip down the main trail. Tatateecha attempting to speak again,
Conacher suddenly urged his horse forward, and cutting the Indian’s
horse smartly across the flank, sent him careering down the main trail,
the only way that was open. The train got in motion again. The other
Slavis, seeing that Conacher meant what he said, filed past him
sullenly. The people across the river fell silent. Conacher fell in at
the tail of the procession again. Ten minutes later his feather-headed
Slavis were singing and chaffing each other in the best temper
imaginable.
But Conacher had to keep a sharp look-out for deserters. Time and again,
one or another of the Slavis edged his horse in among the trees with the
object of circling around and gaining the trail behind Conacher. The
white man found that he could best defeat this maneuver by falling back
a quarter of a mile. In that position he would come face to face with
the astonished deserter, who thought he had already eluded him. Caught
in the act, they made no attempt to resist his commanding voice. When
they spelled at last, Conacher, without appearing to, anxiously counted
his men. He had lost one. With dinner in prospect there was no danger of
their making off. As soon as they had eaten he distributed plugs of
tobacco.
Upon reaching the lake the trail turned sharp to the eastward for some
miles. In order to provide a firm footing it had to encircle the edge of
the wooded country, far back from the water. The vast lake meadows at
this season were like a saturated sponge underfoot. For three sleeps,
Tatateecha explained, they would be traveling alongside these meadows;
and then, climbing through a pass in the hills, would come to the
prairie, where they would find the buffalo grass which made horses fat.
This bottom grass filled them up, but did not stick to their ribs.
Tatateecha was very ingenious in the sign language. When they spelled he
was perfectly good-humored again; attaching himself to Conacher like a
friendly child.
For two full hours they allowed the horses to feed, before rounding them
up again. Conacher would dearly have liked to sleep (as all the Slavis
did) but dared not. However, because of the tobacco he had handed out,
or because they were getting too far away from home, or for some other
reason, the Slavis appeared to have reconciled themselves. There were no
further attempts to desert. It was impossible to tell what was going on
inside their skulls.
Then for five hours longer they continued on their way. The character of
the route never changed. For mile after mile the brown ribbon of earth
threaded in and out amongst the trunks of the pines, climbing the little
unevenness of ground; crossing small water-courses. On their left hand
the vast sea of grass was generally in sight through the trees, with a
suggestion of water on the horizon; sometimes for considerable distances
the trail followed the actual line between grass and timber.
At about six o’clock they halted for the night. It seemed a pity not to
take advantage of the four remaining hours of daylight; but when
Conacher looked at the grass-fed horses, sweaty and drooping, he
perceived the necessity for camping. The horses were turned out in the
grass; the Slavis built their fire at the foot of the bank; while
Conacher spread his bed on top in a grove of pines running out to a
point, whence he could survey both horses and men.
He spent the early part of the evening fraternizing with his men amidst
great laughter when, as frequently happened, the language of signs broke
down. About eight o’clock he retired to his own little fire above, and
rolled up in a blanket. The sun had not yet sunk out of sight; but it
was planned to start at four next morning. As he lay there day-dreaming,
he was greatly astonished to see a Slavi Indian quietly approaching
between the trees at the back of the point.
He sat up. All the Slavis looked very much alike to him; but he
instantly recognized that this was not one of those who had accompanied
him all day. There was a suggestion of secrecy in his approach. A rather
better physical specimen than the average Slavi, his face bore the
childish, deceitful grin that was characteristic of them all. His teeth
were blackened and broken; on the whole, an unpleasant-looking
individual. He held out an envelope towards Conacher; and the young man
leaped to his feet full of a vague alarm.
“Who are you?” he asked involuntarily.
The Indian, grinning, shook his head like a dog, and pointed to his ear;
the usual sign for not understanding.
Conacher pointed to himself, and said “Conacher.” He then pointed to the
Indian.
“Saltahta,” said the man.
Conacher took the envelope. It bore no superscription. Tearing it open,
his heart was filled with warmth at the sight of Loseis’ signature in
big round characters. The letter had been written on the typewriter in
the stammering style of the beginner. Conacher had had such a letter
from Loseis down river. This one was brief.
“There is something wrong here. Gault is plotting mischief. I am afraid.
The man who takes this to you is a good man. Let him go with the outfit,
and you come back to me.”
As he read, all Conacher’s warmth was chilled. Suspicion leaped into his
mind full-grown. There was a vagueness about the letter that was not
like Loseis. Moreover he doubted if she would ever confess to being
afraid, even if she were afraid. And why should she sign her full name;
Laurentia Blackburn. On the other letter it had been simply Laurentia.
He remembered the sheets that Gault had made her sign for him, and
smiled to himself. Really, the plot was too transparent. He, Conacher,
was to be drawn off, and the fur diverted to Gault’s uses under guidance
of this Indian. Loseis had told him of a Slavi who was in Gault’s pay.
Suddenly putting his finger on the man’s breast, Conacher said:
“Etzooah.”
The Slavi looked at him with perfect, stupid blankness, and shook his
head. “Saltahta,” he repeated.
“Tatateecha!” called Conacher.
The little head man came climbing up the bank. Whatever his astonishment
at the sight of the newcomer, nothing showed in his face.
“Who is this man?” demanded Conacher, putting his finger on the Slavi.
“Saltahta,” said the newcomer quickly.
“Saltahta,” repeated Tatateecha like a parrot.
Conacher bit his lip. With a jerk of his head he dismissed Tatateecha.
The other man made as if to follow.
“You stay where you are!” cried Conacher.
Whether or not the man understood English, the gesture which accompanied
the words was amply significant, and he stopped in his tracks. He began
to whine pitifully in his own tongue, pointing to his lips and hugging
his stomach.
“I don’t give a damn how hungry you are,” said Conacher. “I mean to keep
you under my eye until I decide what to do.”
The Indian sat down at the foot of a tree, and pathetically exhibited
his empty pipe to the white man. Conacher tossed him the remainder of a
plug of tobacco, which he began to shave with an air of philosophic
indifference.
There was an agonizing struggle going on in Conacher’s breast. Though he
had every reason in the world to believe that letter a trick, he found
that he _could not disregard it_. There was still one chance in a
thousand that it was genuine, and it was a chance he could not take. He
had been unwilling enough in the first place to leave Loseis; this
little doubt tipped the scale. With that doubt of her safety in his mind
he recognized that it would be simply impossible for him to go on day
after day always putting a greater distance between them. “Oh, to hell
with the fur!” he said to himself; and in that moment his mind was made
up.
But he had no notion of swallowing Gault’s bait (if such it was) whole.
He lit a pipe to stimulate his mental processes, and puffed at it
leaning against a tree, and gazing down at the innocent-eyed Indian
speculatively. He thought: I shall take you back with me, my man.
Tatateecha is a good way from home now, and he’s been over this route
many times. He ought to be able to deliver the fur to Gruber. But in any
case I’d sooner trust him than you. Whether you like it or not, you
shall come back with me.
It seemed important to Conacher not to allow the newcomer to communicate
with the other Slavis. Removing the handkerchief from about his neck, he
therefore forced the astonished Indian to put his hands around the tree
behind him, and firmly bound his wrists together. The captive loudly and
plaintively protested; it was clear that things were not turning out in
the way that he expected.
Conacher then went down the bank to consult with Tatateecha. None of the
Slavis had rolled up for the night. Their faces were perfectly wooden;
but the white man sensed a certain strain in the atmosphere. Evidently
Tatateecha had told them of the newcomer’s arrival, and it had excited
them. As well as he could, Conacher signified to the head man that he
was going back to Blackburn’s Post; and that he wanted two of the least
tired horses to be caught.
Pointing up to the top of the bank, Tatateecha asked an eager question.
“He goes with me,” said Conacher, illustrating with signs.
He thought he saw a look of relief appear in the Slavi faces. However
they volunteered no information. Again he asked Tatateecha the man’s
name, and received the same answer: “Saltahta.” Strange creatures!
Apparently they knew of no way of dealing with the strong and terrifying
white man except to hide as much as possible from them.
Men were sent away to catch the required horses, and Conacher took out
pencil and note-book to write his letter to Gruber. He wished to do this
in the sight of Tatateecha, knowing what a superstitious reverence all
the remoter tribes have for the act of writing. And it was quite true
that Tatateecha, out of the corners of his eyes, followed every move of
the pencil with a look of uneasy awe. Conacher wrote:
“Hector Blackburn was killed on June 3rd by falling over a cliff
with his horse. Matthew Gault has come to Blackburn’s Post where
he is trying to take advantage of the helpless situation of
Blackburn’s daughter. She has written to you, but supposes that
the letter has not been allowed to go through. We are sending
you the fur in charge of Tatateecha because we have nobody else.
If you get this letter send us help quickly. Send the police if
possible; at any rate send white men. I have promised Tatateecha
a credit of one hundred skins if he places this letter in your
hands.”
“Paul Conacher, Dominion Geological Survey.”
Conacher inclosed this letter in the torn envelope, since he had no
other, and offered it to Tatateecha. The Indian received it gingerly and
wrapped it in a fold of the gay worsted sash he wore. Conacher explained
whom it was for, and told Tatateecha he should receive goods to the
value of a hundred skins when it was delivered. To convey the figure,
the white man patiently broke up tiny twigs to the required number.
Tatateecha’s eyes widened in delighted cupidity. In that moment he could
be depended on; the question was, could his feather-head hold to a
resolution long enough to carry it through?
The two horses were driven up on top of the bank. The Slavis jeered and
pointed at the predicament of the one who called himself Saltahta. If it
had been Tatateecha or Conacher himself, they would have done just the
same. By Conacher’s orders, they offered to feed the captive, but he
refused it. When his horse, which was found tied to a tree near by, was
led in, it was discovered that he had plenty of bread and meat tied to
his saddle.
Saddle and bridle were transferred to one of the fresher horses, and the
man was bidden to mount. His hands were tied behind him; and his feet
tied with a loose thong under the horse’s belly. The Slavis yelled in
derision, and slapped their thighs. Conacher would have given a good
deal to have understood the epithets they bestowed on the prisoner. A
leading rein was improvised out of a piece of tracking line. Tying
blanket and food to his own saddle, Conacher mounted, and rode off
leading the other horse.
For a long time he could hear the laughter of the Slavis. He wondered if
they could make any more of the situation than he could, or if their
laughter was as meaningless as it sounded. In the hands of these
crack-brained savages, he bitterly reflected, rested not only the fate
of that fortune in skins, but also the hope of Loseis and him receiving
help from the outside world.