“Just a crooked tool. He’d stick a knife into his brother if there was
anything comin’ to him for the job.”
The factor reached for his straw bonnet, and announced his intention of
going down to the encampment.
“I must get one of the boys to start first thing in the morning, to
take a message along to Fort Determination. I want someone to take my
place here right away,” he explained. “Redpath’ll have to wait for the
_Lac Seul_. We’ll go by canoe, and get ahead of him at the start.”
We had not left the sparkling river, after visiting the native
encampment, when MacCaskill asked abruptly:
“Anything else in that chest of your ole father’s, Rupe? Always been
thinkin’ of it when you weren’t handy?”
What a fool I had been! I had completely forgotten that packet of
letters, after I had taken and hidden them in a box under the floor.
My companion proposed that he should come at once and examine them,
so we turned off into the bush, where the dew showed like points of
light, and on to my homestead, which was dark and silent, for Antoine
was already asleep. Entering, I closed the door, and after lighting the
lamp I dug out the box, and handed its contents over to MacCaskill.
One by one he glanced them through, and pronounced them for the most
part unimportant.
“No use worryin’ out old man’s back life,” he said. “Most o’ these are
from his gal, your mother, addressed to him at Seymour Place, Hyde
Park, London, England. A copy of his marriage certificate. Another
of your baptism. Better keep that. You don’t know what it means, but
you will one time, maybe, if you strike a missionary. Now, here’s
something a bit different: ‘Your sincere friend, Francis Redpath’;
headed, ‘Forsyth Mansions, Victoria Street.’ P’r’aps that is London
again. Golden Jerusalem! He’s promising to be your father’s best man;
postscript, ‘Anything from J. F.?’”
MacCaskill’s busy fingers pulled out another letter, and, as he read,
he fell into indistinctness. At last his hands dropped.
“Shall I tell you, lad, or shall I just say it’s bad and burn it, and
leave you to guess?”
“Tell me,” I said, as anyone else would have done.
The factor picked up the letter, and read:
“‘It is common knowledge that you killed Joe Fagge that night, and
there will be as little mercy for you as you showed to that poor
old devil, when you are taken. You have deceived and ruined me, and
though you are at present out of my reach, you must know, my good
Petrie, that I shall find you, if I hunt long enough. I have set my
mind upon having the old man’s secret, and I shall have it. If you
try to withhold it from me, I am afraid I shall have to kill you.
Remember me. I don’t give up a search, if I fail twenty times.’”
The factor folded up the sheet.
“That’s enough,” he said. “No address. I guess it was brought to ole
Petrie by someone who wouldn’t give his hiding-place away. Now we know
why he wasted his life away here. I thought maybe ’twas something like
it, and Redpath’s got here, as he said he would, though he didn’t get
in until old man had his notice to quit.”
His words came booming at my ears.
“Father was never a murderer,” I said.
“I knew old man, and now I know Redpath. If I was asked to pick out the
murderer, I wouldn’t stop to choose. Now here’s something else. Golden
gates! Listen, Rupe. Listen to this.”
He read out slowly:
“‘The true statement of James Petrie.’ That’s your father, lad.
That’s old man. And this is gospel, for he never wanted it to be
read while he was alive. Listen to this, I tell ye.”
I was listening with both my ears, while the night quivered and
murmured around my home. MacCaskill began to read:
“‘It was late in the fall of 1874 when Joe Fagge made his accidental
discovery of Bonanza. He was accompanied only by the half-breed
Leblanc, who was in camp when the old man made the great find of
the hole, and who was kept in ignorance, I imagine, of the whole
thing. As it was too late to do anything until the next season, Fagge
returned south, and settled to winter in Portage la Prairie, where
he came against Redpath, who at the time was speculating in land,
and, as usual, doing no good. Both he and I knew Fagge well enough,
and we had often received from him useful hints regarding promising
localities for gold-finding.
“‘The old man was the cleverest, and most eccentric, miner in the
whole north-west; but in that winter of 1874 his brain began to fail,
and when given a little liquor he could be brought to talk about his
one great discovery. Redpath knew his weakness, and kept close to
the old man to hinder him from giving away the secret to others; but
Joe had a violent dislike for Redpath, and refused to give him any
details as to the bearings of Bonanza.
“‘I had just returned to the west, as my young wife had died shortly
after Rupert’s birth. I had spent all my money again, and came
out to find another good digging along the gold line. Redpath sent
for me from Portage la Prairie, but when I got up, Joe Fagge was
little better than a madman. I kept with him, and chained him up,
metaphorically speaking; but it was tough work looking after him and
my little Rupert, babies both, for the old man was always crying for
liquor. Redpath and I had quarrelled pretty badly just before--not
for the first time. His cynicism was intolerable. I had not been
what one would call a particularly straight man myself, and I knew
he wasn’t much better than a scoundrel; but on the “honour among
thieves” principle we hung together, and I trusted him part of the
way.’”
MacCaskill turned over the leaf, and read on, his face hidden. My eyes
looked over him, and rested upon the window.
“‘Joe improved a lot as the winter went out, and finally he consented
to take me to Bonanza, although he would not hear of Redpath
accompanying us. The break-up came early that year, and we were
able to start in April. We hired a boat, but it pinched to find the
money--miners are poor in the spring--and set out from Selkirk,
getting safely out of the river, and away, though we found a lot
of loose ice floating about the lake. Our crew consisted of Joe,
Leblanc, a couple of nitchies, and myself. A boat which followed ours
held Redpath and his man Olaffson. I had arranged with him to wait
off the coast, until the old man had told me all he knew. I marked
the course carefully as we came along, and set it down in writing;
but it was plain sailing until we came under the coast, where Joe had
forgotten a good deal, and we had to try a lot of places before he
could recognise the shape of the beach. Leblanc, a half-breed of the
worst class, was of no use. On the previous occasion they had come
overland to the shore, and then worked back. The key of the discovery
lay in the finding of a tunnel out of a canyon, which we called the
Canyon of the North Wind, taking us through cliffs of a perfectly
inaccessible nature. This pass the old man had named Mosquito Hole,
and this is the name I have given it upon my map....’”
MacCaskill pushed himself back. My attention had been led astray, and
the closing sentences of my father’s narrative had been lost upon me.
“The other half of the sheet’s torn away,” said the factor morosely.
“Just as we were comin’ to the excitement. Old man must have thought
better of it. Maybe he tore it by accident. There’s no more yarn,
anyhow.”
“Don’t move,” I said softly. “There’s trouble. I have seen a face
against the window.”
MacCaskill suddenly pulled a quick breath, then, throwing his body
forward, burst into a hearty shout of laughter.
“Seen anything?” he muttered, after a pause.
“A shadow passed. The moon’s bright.”
“And Redpath’s worryin’ over the knock-down you gave him.”
The factor gave another loud laugh, then, getting up, pulled the
blanket, which did duty for a blind, across the window. When we were
concealed he turned and snatched up my late father’s old gun, while I
caught at and loaded mine.
“We can step out by the window at the back,” I said.
“Leave the lamp burnin’. That’ll fool ’em.”
Passing into the kitchen, we shook up Antoine, who slept in his
clothes. I carefully pushed aside the mosquito netting, and climbed
through the window, which lay in darkness, for the shadow of the house
fell that way, and a bluff of small pines grew right back to the wall.
My companions followed, and we glided among the trees, climbed the
snake fence, and entered the scrub, with the idea of working round, to
watch from the bush what might be taking place in front of the house.
I led the way, because I knew every inch of the ground, and MacCaskill
followed, breathing like an ox, and Antoine came sleepily third. I had
just reckoned that another twenty paces would bring us clear of the
scrub, when I smelt smoke, and through the trees came a quick flash
without noise, and the unmistakable odour of gunpowder. The factor gave
a hard snort of rage, and Antoine muttered heavily, “Burn! Burn!”
“That’s powder out of their cartridges,” said MacCaskill. “Bet you
they’re watchin’ that door, and think we’re trapped.”
Some rocks were scattered outside the bush, and behind one of these we
took up our stand; a volume of smoke rolled over the ground, and when
it had passed I saw a series of flames darting up and out suddenly. My
home, the little log shanty that my father had made for a refuge, was
burning, and it was useless to think of trying to save it. The loss of
the shanty was in itself a small matter, because another equally good
could be run up in a day, with the aid of my Indian friends; my few
possessions were of very trivial value; but associations cling about a
building, be it only a bush hut, when it has always been one’s home.
I felt, for the second time that day, the hot, unreasoning strength
coming over me from head to foot, and I rested my gun upon the shoulder
of the rock when I saw a tall figure standing beside the door, leaning
forward, and waiting, hoping for revenge.
“Don’t do it, Rupe,” said the deep voice behind me. “That sort of thing
leaves a bad taste all a man’s life. Meet a rascal to his face, and
knock hell into him, but don’t skunk behind a rock and pump lead his
way, like he was a jack-rabbit.”
“Are we going to stand here?” I said, in a voice unlike my own.
“We’ll watch ’em away. You can’t save the shanty, boy, and if we go out
you’ll make at Redpath. I’ll have to take on Olaffson for sympathy,
and there’ll be a lot of trouble. You’ve got well out of this, and you
don’t want to spoil the game now.”
The logs of my late home were cracking and splitting under the fire.
Antoine was more philosophic than I, and accepted the inevitable with
his customary indifference. The flames wrapped round the shanty, and
the dry thatch roared, putting out the light of the moon. Then the roof
smashed down, with an upburst of fireworks, and the two dark figures,
the tall and the short, came together, and sneaked away, with backward
glances.
My arms twitched again, and I must have made a threatening movement,
because a great hairy hand seized the barrel of my gun. The figures
became swallowed up, and we three were alone again.
“Say, Rupe”--MacCaskill moved back a pace, and put out his two thick
arms--“I’m sixty-five, and I guess Redpath’s the wrong side o’ fifty.
How should we go? If we stood together, wi’ our sleeves up, and wi’
tight waists, how would we go, eh?”
“It would be bad for Redpath,” I growled, and Antoine grunted his
assent.
We three went back to the Fort. In the morning came Akshelah to tell me
that a canoe belonging to the chief had been stolen during the night.
Aided by a fresh north wind, which sprang up with the dawn, Redpath and
Olaffson had made good their escape. At the time my maid spoke, the
incendiaries would have been well away upon Lake Whispering.