A BUSINESS DEAL
It was thirty below zero. The packed snow crunched under the feet of
Morse as he moved down what served Faraway for a main street. The
clock in the store registered mid-afternoon, but within a few minutes
the sub-Arctic sun would set, night would fall, and aurora lights
would glow in the west.
Four false suns were visible around the true one, the whole forming a
cross of five orbs. Each of these swam in perpendicular segments of a
circle of prismatic colors. Even as the young man looked, the lowest
of the cluster lights plunged out of sight. By the time he had reached
the McRae house, darkness hung over the white and frozen land.
Jessie opened the door to his knock and led him into the living-room
of the family, where also the trapper's household ate and Fergus
slept. It was a rough enough place, with its mud-chinked log walls and
its floor of whipsawed lumber. But directly opposite the door was a
log-piled hearth that radiated comfort and cheerfulness. Buffalo robes
served as rugs and upon the walls had been hung furs of silver fox,
timber wolves, mink, and beaver. On a shelf was a small library of not
more than twenty-five books, but they were ones that only a lover of
good reading would have chosen. Shakespeare and Burns held honored
places there. Scott's poems and three or four of his novels were in
the collection. In worn leather bindings were "Tristram Shandy,"
and Smollett's "Complete History of England." Bunyan's "Pilgrim's
Progress" shouldered Butler's "Hudibras" and Baxter's "The Saint's
Everlasting Rest." Into this choice company one frivolous modern novel
had stolen its way. "Nicholas Nickleby" had been brought from Winnipeg
by Jessie when she returned from school. The girl had read them all
from cover to cover, most of them many times. Angus too knew them all,
with the exception of the upstart "storybook" written by a London
newspaper man of whom he had never before heard.
"I'm alone," Jessie explained. "Father and Fergus have gone out to the
traps. They'll not be back till to-morrow. Mother's with Mrs. Whaley."
Tom knew that the trader's wife was not well. She was expecting to be
confined in a few weeks.
He was embarrassed at being alone with the girl inside the walls of
a house. His relations with Angus McRae reached civility, but not
cordiality. The stern old Scotchman had never invited him to drop in
and call. He resented the fact that through the instrumentality of
Morse he had been forced to horsewhip the lass he loved, and the
trader knew he was not forgiven his share in the episode and probably
never would be. Now Tom had come only because a matter of business had
to be settled one way or the other at once.
"Blandoine is leavin' for Whoop-Up in the mornin'. I came to see your
father about those robes. If we buy, it'll have to be now. I can send
'em down with Blandoine," he explained.
She nodded, briskly. "Father said you could have them at your price if
you'll pay what he asked for those not split. They're good hides--cows
and young bulls."[5]
[Footnote 5: A split robe was one cut down the middle and sewn
together with sinews. The ones skinned from the animal in a single
piece were much more valuable, but the native women usually prepared
the hides the other way because of the weight in handling. One of the
reasons the Indians gave the missionaries in favor of polygamy was
that one wife could not dress a buffalo robe without assistance. The
braves themselves did not condescend to menial labor of this kind.
(W.M.R.)]
"It's a deal," the fur-trader said promptly. "Glad to get 'em, though
I'm payin' all I can afford for the split ones."
"I'll get the key to the storehouse," Jessie said.
She walked out of the room with the springy, feather-footed step that
distinguished her among all the women that he knew. In a few moments
she was back. Instead of giving him the key, she put it down on the
table near his hand.
Beneath the tan the dark blood beat into his face. He knew she had
done this in order not to run the risk of touching him.
For a long moment his gaze gripped and held her. Between them passed
speech without words. His eyes asked if he were outside the pale
completely, if he could never wipe out the memory of that first cruel
meeting. Hers answered proudly that, half-breed though she was, he was
to her only a wolfer, of less interest than Black, the leader of her
father's dog train.
He picked up the key and left, wild thoughts whirling through his
mind. He loved her. Of what use was it trying longer to disguise it
from himself. Of the inferior blood she might be, yet his whole being
went out to her in deep desire. He wanted her for his mate. He craved
her in every fiber of his clean, passionate manhood, as he had never
before longed for a woman in his life. And she hated him--hated him
with all the blazing scorn of a young proud soul whose fine body had
endured degradation on his account. He was a leper, to be classed with
Bully West.
Nor did he blame her. How could she feel otherwise and hold her
self-respect. The irony of it brought a bitter smile to his lips. If
she only knew it, the years would avenge her a hundredfold. For he had
cut himself off from even the chance of the joy that might have been
his.
In the sky an aurora flashed with scintillating splendor. The heavens
were aglow with ever-changing bars and columns of colored fire.
Morse did not know it. Not till he had passed a dozen steps beyond a
man in heavy furs did his mind register recognition of him as Whaley.
He did not even wonder what business was taking the gambler toward
Angus McRae's house.
Business obtruded its claims. He arranged with Blandoine to take
the robes out with him and walked back to the McRae storehouse. It
adjoined the large log cabin where the Scotchman and his family lived.
Blandoine and he went over the robes carefully in order that there
should be no mistake as to which ones the trainmaster took. This done,
Morse locked the door and handed the key to his companion.
To him there was borne the sound of voices--one low and deep, the
other swift and high. He caught no words, but he became aware that a
queer excitement tingled through his veins. At the roots of his hair
there was an odd, prickling sensation. He could give himself no
reason, but some instinct of danger rang in him like a bell. The low
bass and the light high treble--they reached him alternately, cutting
into each other, overriding each other, clashing in agitated dissent.
Then--a shrill scream for help!
Morse could never afterward remember opening the door of the log
house. It seemed to him that he burst through it like a battering-ram,
took the kitchen in two strides, and hurled himself against the sturdy
home-made door which led into the living-room.
This checked him, for some one had slid into its socket the bar used
as a bolt. He looked around the kitchen and found in one swift glance
what he wanted. It was a large back log for the fireplace.
With this held at full length under his arm he crashed forward. The
wood splintered. He charged again, incited by a second call for
succor. This time his attack dashed the bolt and socket from their
place. Morse stumbled into the room like a drunken man.