A BOARD CREAKS
After Morse had closed the door, Jessie listened until the crisp
crunch of his footsteps had died away. She subdued an impulse to call
him back and put into words her quarrel against him.
From the table she picked up a gun-cover of moose leather she was
making and moved to the fireplace. Automatically her fingers fitted
into place a fringe of red cloth. (This had been cut from an old
petticoat, but the source of the decoration would remain a secret, not
on any account to be made known to him who was to receive the gift.)
Usually her hands were busy ones, but now they fell away from the work
listlessly.
The pine logs crackled, lighting one end of the room and filling the
air with aromatic pungency. As she gazed into the red coals her mind
was active.
She knew that her scorn of the fur-trader was a fraud. Into her hatred
of him she threw an energy always primitive and sometimes savage. But
he held her entire respect. It was not pleasant to admit this. Her
mind clung to the shadowy excuse that he had been a wolfer, although
the Indians looked on him now as a good friend and a trader who would
not take advantage of them. Angus McRae himself had said there was no
better citizen in the Northland.
No, she could not hold Tom Morse in contempt as she would have liked.
But she could cherish her animosity and feed it on memories that
scorched her as the whiplash had her smooth and tender flesh. She
would never forgive him--never. Not if he humbled himself in the dust.
Toward Angus McRae she held no grudge whatever. He had done only his
duty as he saw it. The circumstances had forced his hand, for her word
had pledged him to punishment. But this man who had walked into her
life so roughly, mastered her by physical force, dragged her to
the ignominy of the whip, and afterward had dared to do her a
service--when she woke at night and thought of him she still burned
with shame and anger. He had been both author and witness of her
humiliation.
The girl's reverie stirred reflection of other men, for already she
had suitors in plenty. Upon one of them her musing lingered. He had
brought to her gifts of the friendly smile, of comradeship, of youth's
debonair give-and-take. She did not try to analyze her feeling for
Winthrop Beresford. It was enough to know that he had brought into her
existence the sparkle of joy.
For life had stalked before her with an altogether too tragic mien.
In this somber land men did not laugh much. Their smiles held a
background of gravity. Icy winter reigned two thirds of the year and
summer was a brief hot blaze following no spring. Nature demanded of
those who lived here that they struggle to find subsistence. In that
conflict human beings forgot that they had been brought into the world
to enjoy it with careless rapture.
Somewhere in the house a board, creaked. Jessie heard it
inattentively, for in the bitter cold woodwork was always snapping and
cracking.
Beresford had offered her a new philosophy of life. She did not quite
accept it, yet it fascinated. He believed that the duty of happiness
was laid on people as certainly as the duty of honesty. She remembered
that once he had said....
There had come to her no sound, but Jessie knew that some one had
opened the door and was standing on the threshold watching her. She
turned her head. Her self-invited guest was Whaley.
Jessie rose. "What do you want?"
She was startled at the man's silent entry, ready to be alarmed if
necessary, but not yet afraid. It was as though her thoughts waited
for the cue he would presently give. Some instinct for safety made her
cautious. She did not tell the free trader that her father and Fergus
were from home.
He looked at her, appraisingly, from head to foot, in such a way that
she felt his gaze had stripped her.
"You know what I want. You know what I'm going to get ... some day,"
he purred in his slow, feline way.
She pushed from her mind a growing apprehension.
"Father and Fergus--if you want them--"
"Have I said I wanted them?" he asked. "They're out in the woods
trappin'. I'm not lookin' for them. The two of us'll be company for
each other."
"Go," she said, anger flaring at his insolence. "Go. You've no
business here."
"I'm not here for business, but for pleasure, my dear."
The cold, fishy eyes in his white face gloated. Suddenly she wanted to
scream and pushed back the desire scornfully. If she did, nobody would
hear her. This had to be fought out one to one.
"Why didn't you knock?" she demanded.
"We'll say I did and that you didn't hear me," he answered suavely.
"What's it matter among friends anyhow?"
"What do you want?" By sheer will power she kept her voice low.
"Your mother's over at the house. I dropped in to say she'll probably
stay all night."
"Is your wife worse?"
He lifted the black brows that contrasted so sharply with the pallor
of the face. "Really you get ahead of me, my dear. I don't recall ever
getting married."
"That's a hateful thing to say," she flamed, and bit her lower lip
with small white teeth to keep from telling the squaw-man what she
thought of him. The Cree girl he had taken to wife was going down
into the Valley of the Shadow to bear him a child while he callously
repudiated her.
He opened his fur coat and came to the fireplace. "I can say nicer
things--to the right girl," he said, and looked meaningly at her.
"I'll have to go get Susie Lemoine to stay with me," Jessie said
hurriedly. "I didn't know Mother wasn't coming home."
She made a move toward a fur lying across the back of a chair.
He laid a hand upon her arm. "What's your rush? What are you dodgin'
for, girl? I'm good as Susie to keep the goblins from gettin you."
"Don't touch me." Her eyes sparked fire.
"You're mighty high-heeled for a nitchie. I reckon you forget you're
Sleeping Dawn, daughter of a Blackfoot squaw."
"I'm Jessie McRae, daughter of Angus, and if you insult me, you'll
have to settle with him."
He gave a short snort of laughter. "Wake up, girl. What's the use of
foolin' yourself? You're a breed. McRae's tried to forget it and so
have you. But all the time you know damn well you're half Injun."
Jessie looked at him with angry contempt, then wheeled for the door.
Whaley had anticipated that and was there before her. His narrowed,
covetous eyes held her while one hand behind his back slid the bolt
into place.
"Let me out!" she cried.
"Be reasonable. I'm not aimin' to hurt you."
"Stand aside and let me through."
He managed another insinuating laugh. "Have some sense. Quit ridin'
that high horse and listen while I talk to you."
But she was frightened by this time as much as she was incensed. A
drum of dread was beating in her panicky heart. She saw in his eyes
what she had never before seen on a face that looked into hers--though
she was to note it often in the dreadful days that followed--the
ruthless appetite of a wild beast crouching for its kill."
"Let me go! Let me go!" Her voice was shrilly out of control. "Unbar
the door, I tell you!"
"I'm a big man in this country. Before I'm through. I'll be head chief
among the trappers for hundreds of miles. I'm offerin' you the chance
of a lifetime. Throw in with me and you'll ride in your coach at
Winnipeg some day." Voice and words were soft and smooth, but back of
them Jessie felt the panther couched for its spring.
She could only repeat her demand, in a cry that reached its ictus in a
sob.
"If you're dreamin' about that red-coat spy--hopin' he'll marry
you after he's played fast and loose with you--why, forget such
foolishness. I know his kind. When he's had his fling, he'll go back
to his own people and settle down. He's lookin' for a woman, not a
wife."
"That's a lie!" she flung out, rage for the moment in ascendent. "Open
that door or I'll--"
Swiftly his hand shot forward and caught her wrist. "What'll you do?"
he asked, and triumph rode in his eyes.
She screamed. One of his hands clamped down over her mouth, the other
went round her waist and drew the slim body to him. She fought,
straining from him, throwing back her head in another lifted shriek
for help.
As well she might have matched her strength with a buffalo bull. He
was still under forty, heavy-set, bones packed with heavy muscles. It
seemed to her that all the power of her vital youth vanished and left
only limp and flaccid weakness. He snatched her close and kissed the
dusky eyes, the soft cheeks, the colorful lips....
She became aware that he was holding her from him, listening. There
was a crash of wood.
Again her call for help rang out.
Whaley flung her from him. He crouched, every nerve and muscle tense,
lips drawn back in a snarl. She saw that in his hand there was a
revolver.
Against the door a heavy weight was hurled. The wood burst into
splinters as the bolt shot from the socket. Drunkenly a man plunged
across the threshold, staggering from the impact of the shock.