“Are you going to tell me which way the Icelander went?”
“Not unless you show silver,” said the sailor, pulling a match along
his leg. “We can’t work for nothin’ in hard times.”
“I haven’t got a cent on me,” I said, and it was the truth. I might
also have added, with equal truth, that I had never owned a cent of
cash in my life.
“He’s only jest got by,” the man said temptingly. “When I heard ye,
I thought ’twas him a-comin’ back to apologise, an’ a-beggin’ me
acceptance of a paper o’ matches.”
I had played enough poker at home with my father and MacCaskill to have
acquired the first principles of bluff. Had I not already succeeded
with Redpath?
“I guess he went this way,” I said, moving off in the direction of the
mainland.
“You’ll get left,” said the sailor, puffing contentedly. “See here,
stranger! Yer pard’s gone along inter the town. That’s truth, for
givin’ me the matches.”
I swung round, and went on the way I had intended, leaving the sailor
cursing in the car.
Light began to prevail over the shadows as I approached the mainland
beach, where great piles of prepared lumber for the markets of the
world awaited shipment. Above and around, thousands of those white
birds which had named the neighbourhood filled the air with the noise
of their wings and their screams. It was difficult to make rapid
progress, because the shingle was littered with logs, and the light was
shifting and uncertain. The saw-mills took shape before me, and the
half-wrecked forest gaped behind. Then a short figure began to dodge
about a sheltered angle made by the wall of the nearest machine-shed,
and I felt sure I had recognised my man. Coming up as quickly as I
could, I thought for the moment that the rascal was trying to set fire
to the shed, but when I was almost up, I encountered the stiff breeze
from the lake, and understood that he was getting a light for his pipe.
He was bending his back towards me; a tiny red flame shot up, and a
cloud of smoke followed. The next instant I was behind him, cutting off
the only way of retreat, and, while his head was still down, I called
“Olaffson!”
The pipe was dashed against the corner of the shed, and fell to the
shingle. An exclamation of dismay followed, not from his lips, but from
mine. Before me was not the white face of Olaffson, but the dark, heavy
countenance of a half-breed whom I had never seen before. I hurriedly
concluded that this stranger knew Olaffson, had possibly just parted
from him, the Icelander returning to the settlement, as the sailor had
said, and this man coming on to the mills.
“I made sure you were Olaffson,” I said coolly, as the half-breed bent
to reclaim his pipe. “Has he gone back to the camp?”
The man looked at me stupidly.
“What d’yer want wi’ Olaffson?” he muttered at last.
“I just want to know how far you are in with him and Redpath.”
The half-breed shifted, and avoided my gaze.
“Redpath ain’t here,” he growled.
I began to be delighted with myself, and went on with increased
confidence:
“I know where he is.” This shot had no effect, but I remembered the
Icelander’s character, and suggested meaningly: “You’re in with
Olaffson against Redpath.”
The half-breed again moved awkwardly, and growled:
“That ain’t so.”
“I know Olaffson,” I said.
Possibly these simple words contained a meaning beyond my
understanding. The man glanced towards me wildly, then dropped his
eyes, and kicked sullenly at the wooden scantling, his face wearing
that grey pallor which betokens fear in a half-black.
“And I guess you know me,” I went on. “My name is Petrie.”
That beat him. He turned shivering, and edged away, his face ghastly.
“Lemme go,” he whined. “I never done it. You can’t bring it up agin me.
I tell ye I didn’t have a hand in it. Lemme go, _sir_.”
Mentally blindfolded, I fumbled for the truth.
“Don’t you tell me you haven’t seen Olaffson this morning,” I said.
“He’s on the island,” admitted the breed. “I saw him las’ night.”
“And Redpath, too.”
But the man gave a strong denial. He declared he had not set eyes upon
the English adventurer for years, and I was constrained to believe him,
because I could see that he was terribly afraid of Redpath.
“What’s your name?” I said sharply.
Success had made me too bold. The question displayed the weakness of
my hand, and dull as the man might be, he was quick enough to see the
blunder. He stared at me in his owlish fashion, and muttered hopefully:
“You ain’t Petrie.”
“I guess so,” I said, feeling myself weaken.
“Let me out er this,” said the half-breed roughly.
He pushed by me with contempt, and I was too crestfallen to oppose
him. In any case I could not have used force, because the day had
broken, and men were already coming along the neck connecting Gull
with the mainland. The breed slouched away towards the saw-mills, and
I walked back to Tecumseh House, where I found MacCaskill starting his
breakfast. When I had reported, he said:
“A half-breed, eh? I’ll go one better, and put a name to him. Don’t
ye mind old man’s statement? That feller’s name will be Leblanc, the
‘half-breed of the worst class.’”
Directly the factor spoke I remembered, but the chance had passed.
All day we kept to ourselves, considering our plans; but after dark
the factor impressed upon me the necessity of mixing with the crowd,
as otherwise the inhabitants of Gull might conceive the idea that we
imagined ourselves superior to them, and that is the way which leads to
unpopularity.
To me this summer camp, with its stores and saloons, was a great,
bustling centre of life, and I thought myself quite one of the world’s
citizens; but when I asked my partner if Gull at all resembled the
town of London, where I had first seen the light, he doubled up with
laughter.
“Why, Rupe, this is only a bit of a lumber camp. You should see London,
Ontario, me boy, where things do keep on the buzz. And they say that
London, Ontario, ain’t in the same gang of flies wi’ London, England.”
Suddenly the lamp-lighted night-dens began to disgorge their occupants;
and when everyone set their faces towards Gull Harbour, the factor
stopped a flaxen-haired Swede, and asked him the reason of the
excitement. He returned to me with the information that the steamship
_Carillon_ was just drawing into harbour, while the residents were
turning out to put themselves into communication, so far as they might,
with the outer world.
“She’s the boat we’re going by,” said my partner.
We joined the rough-voiced crowd of all nations, and came to the round,
slippery logs that made the landing-stage.
To me the scene resembled a vivid dream rather than any picture of
human activity. The big ship moved in slowly, her lights flickering,
and presently the ropes, like lithe brown snakes, sped uncoiling
through the air. Everything was silvered with wet, because clouds of
spray swept continually over the wharf, and the wind freshened even
while we waited. Hanging to the rough poles, above the waves that were
breaking and creaming over the stones, a few greasy lanterns swayed;
and in the conflict of lights hundreds of gulls circled, screamed
wildly, and dropped upon the water like huge snowflakes, or wheeled
away into the outer darkness. Behind the settlement tiers of black rock
went up, backed by ascending terraces of sweeping trees of soft wood,
right away to the dark-blue sky-line; and between, where the waves
were flung upon the crags, I saw innumerable points of light lit by
the fireflies, darting, going out, and starting again into light. The
gangways ran out, and the canvas-clad sailors were quickly at work,
rolling provision barrels over the greasy logs to an accompaniment of
shouts and dialect chatter. A few bundles of newspapers were dispersed,
and here and there an eager group had formed to discuss the news of the
world by aid of one of the lanterns.
Presently a voice shouted close beside us:
“Watch yerselves, boys, here’s the mission-airy!”
“What’s that?” MacCaskill called, pushing forward, while I followed,
unwilling to be left.
“Father Lacombe, of Three Points,” said one of the sailors, flinging a
barrel up on end, and spitting on his hands before clutching another.
While he spoke I caught sight of the large, black figure of the first
priest I had ever seen, stepping carefully over the logs. He was
wearing a hard felt hat, and his cassock was fastened up behind by
means of a safety-pin; I caught the glint of this tiny article as the
priest walked away towards the settlement of Gull.
“Three Points Mission. That’s across Peace,” said MacCaskill, turning
to me. “P’r’aps he’ll cross wi’ us.”
Father Lacombe walked away leisurely, his valise tucked under his arm,
his cape flapping in the strong breeze, and when darkness had closed
after him the crowd began to jeer.