“Ay, that’s your name. Old man went sudden, or maybe he’d have told ye.”
Rousing myself, I went out with the factor, and we walked over to the
Fort through the silver night.
We buried my father the next day under a big pine a stone’s throw from
the door, and Antoine heaped a mound to mark the spot. Akshelah stood
with me beside the grave, her black hair wrapped in a red shawl as
bright as her cheeks. We were alone.
“You will be lonely?” said she softly, her head to one side.
“I have you, and the factor, with your father and the tribe.”
“Oh, yes,” said the girl, and I saw that she was happy because I had
named her first.
The evening found me turning out my father’s chest. There were letters
and papers, which he would probably have destroyed, had not death
tripped him up so suddenly. As I could not read, these were of slight
interest, if I except one ragged sheet, half covered with writing, and
the other half containing a rough diagram, where I thought I made out
sea and coast, with rocks and hills behind. Always anxious to learn,
I smoked over this torn sheet for a long time, and even after I had
lighted the lamp I turned to it again. The letters I had put into a
box and hidden.
It was a silent night. Antoine slept in the kitchen, and an electric
storm might have passed leaving his slumbers unbroken. The door was
open, and the smoke of the smudge hung between me and the night. I was
about to go towards my bedroom, when my highly trained ears caught a
sound, which was not made by any bird, or beast, or insect in the bush.
I looked up, not afraid, but startled. I stepped forward, and put the
lamp above my head. Through the flickering smoke I made out the figure
of a man.
I took him to be an Indian, and called out in Cree. No answer came, but
the man stood out from the smoke, and I then spoke to him in English,
because I was sure he had mistaken my home for the Fort.
“An elderly gentleman of the name of Petrie lives here, I believe?”
asked the stranger.
He was tall, loosely made, and his clothes hung on him badly.
Unaccustomed to strange white people, I became confused.
“My father is outside now,” I said, not for the moment realising that
my words contained a meaning I never intended.
“Ah, yes. And where, may I ask?” The stranger’s voice was smooth, and
his manner deferential.
“Under the big pine.”
I indicated the shadowy outline of the tree, and immediately, to my
great surprise, found myself alone. I had forgotten the sheet of paper,
still spread out upon the table, and before I had collected my wits the
man was back. He smiled at me with his large mouth, and looked over me
with his cold eyes, making me more uncomfortable than I had ever felt
before.
“I imagine it must be very easy to fool me,” he observed gently. “I
have been deceived by so many people, your good father among them,
and you have fooled me with your first word.” He smiled, still more
guilelessly. “When did he die?”
“Yesterday,” I answered, but while I said the word his eyes started
like those of a starving man.
I was too quick for him. I was nearer the table, and I snatched away
the sheet of paper, as his long hands pounced at it.
“I really believe that is my property,” he said eagerly, yet backing
indifferently. “My good fellow, I am positively convinced that is mine.”
“No,” I said simply.
The man felt in his pocket, and I suddenly picked up my unloaded gun.
“What are you about?” cried the stranger, with assumed horror. “Ah, you
are Petrie’s son, I can see, hot, headstrong, and impulsive, mistaking
a friend for an enemy, just as he always did. You must know that I’ve
been searching for your good father close upon twenty years, and
wasting my life doing it. He stole that plan from me. It is terrible
to have to say so, but you require me to make good my claim. You know
what it is, of course?”