SINCLAIR MEETS THE ACCOUNT
Pideau was hard on the heels of the Wolf. Instinct warned him that the
youth must not be allowed to depart without further word.
The Wolf was standing in the open doorway when the other reached him.
And together, for a moment, they stood peering out over the snowy waste
in the direction of the police quarters.
They were still together--Annette and the fur-clad figure of the
policeman. They were in just the same position on either side of the
rough gate. There were other fur-clad figures moving over the snow in
various directions. But the gray bitterness of the winter day offered
small enough inducement to any but those answering the call of their
day’s work.
Pideau was slightly behind the Wolf.
“It don’t need a heap of guessin’,” he said in a considered tone. “You
reckon to do the thing her father ain’t. I kind o’ wonder the thing you
reckon a father could do. You’re goin’ to stop it? An’ I ast you how?
It ain’t fer me to know, eh? You’re just goin’ to wait around an’ stop
it.”
Pideau was jeering. He was determined to provoke. He was looking for
angry retort. But as none was forthcoming he went on.
“She’s to be your wife, eh?” he said, in a low, harsh tone. “Ther’s
nothin’ out of hell to stop it? Maybe ther’s something deep down in
hell that will. We know Sinclair. But ther’s no man can know the stuff
that lies back of Annette’s pretty head. Will you marry Annette when
Sinclair’s through with her?”
The Wolf turned. The half-breed’s goading had achieved its purpose.
Pideau saw the fierce light in the eyes that sought his. He saw the
sudden distention of the veins on his forehead and at his temples.
When the Wolf spoke, however, it was still in his cold, even tone.
“Cut that stuff right out, Pideau,” he said. “You’re her father, and
the last man with the right to talk that way. You haven’t the manhood
to get it right. If you had you’d have fixed Sinclair before this. I
told you I’d marry Annette. Whatever happens that goes. But if hurts
come to my little play-girl through him, I’ll--kill Sinclair.”
Pideau’s eyes narrowed till the triumph in them was hidden.
“Does that go, too?” he asked. Then came a hoarse laugh. “If it does
then you need to get after him right away. The hurt’s done. If you’d
the eyes of a blind mule you’d have seen it in her, weeks back. It’s
been in her dandy eyes. It’s been in everything about her. Maybe my
manhood don’t leave me understandin’. But I’m her father, and I guess I
know Annette. ’Tain’t me that don’t understand, boy. It’s you. You’re
late by weeks. That’s why I haven’t jumped. I’m waitin’. I’m waitin’
because she’s playin’ her hand, and ain’t thro’ yet. Well, if your
stuff goes, get right out after Sinclair an’ kill him. He’s robbed you.
But it ain’t nothin’ to the way he’s robbed her.”
Pideau’s eyes were wide enough now. He had nothing now to conceal.
There was neither taunt nor goad in his words. He was just sheer
feeling. The father in him had risen above everything else. Bad as he
was he still had the humanity of the father. In his crude fashion he
loved Annette with all that was in him.
They stood looking at each other. Then, at last, the Wolf gestured.
Pideau saw the clenching hands, so strong, so merciless in their
movement. Then as the Wolf moved away without a word, he looked after
him.
With the Wolf’s going Pideau’s manner underwent complete
transformation. The father in him faded out giving place to all the
evil that was more than nine-tenths of the man’s being. His eyes
narrowed again. And the gleam in then was one of unholy triumph.
The Wolf’s purpose was plain to him. Pideau knew he had sent him off a
potential killer. It was what he desired. It was the realization of his
fondest hope. He meant the Wolf to stand on the same plane as himself.
Then, at last, he would know that peace of mind which for ten years had
been denied him.
* * * * *
The gray of the winter day was without any impression upon the man
and the girl lingering at the gateway of the police inclosure. The
cold was penetrating. But was not the winter cold at Buffalo Coulee
always penetrating? Sinclair and Annette were young and vigorous, and
completely absorbed in that which lay between them. So they gave heed
to nothing so unimportant as weather conditions.
Annette was clad in a knee-length fur coat. It was of Persian Lamb, a
recent birthday gift from the Wolf, who had been at pains to purchase
it in one of the big cities of the East. Her round cap, low-pressed
over her pretty ears, was of similar fur. Then her small feet were
hidden within the ugly proportions of Arctic overshoes, which reached
knee-high over warm stockings.
She was very attractive as she peered out from between the enveloping
folds of her high storm collar. The dusk of her face was lost against
the black fur. Her black eyes were alight and flashing between their
long curling lashes. And her ripe, parted lips were intensely alluring.
She was gazing up into the full, youthful face of the policeman with
an intentness that robbed her eyes of any softness.
Sinclair was unsmiling, too. Sensible of the girl’s beauty, at that
moment he was without any appreciation of it. He was not even looking
at her. His blue eyes were on the iron-roofed store on the far side of
the township, and he was thinking hard.
The policeman knew that the moment had come when life was presenting
him with one of those ugly bills which it never fails to produce for
settlement after the indulgence of youthful follies which have crossed
the borderline of crime. And in that moment the last thing capable
of making appeal to him was this woman’s charm, which, for weeks and
months now, had so badly inflamed his unbridled soul.
He was a largish man and good-looking enough, until close study
revealed certain physical imperfections which can betray so much. He
was of the fair, florid type. He was by no means unimposing under his
regulation fur cap, and in his black sheepskin fur with the yellow
stripe of his breeches showing below its lower edge.
But his eyes had that queer glisten in them which so curiously denotes
the sensual. His nether lip was too full, and even loose. Then he had
an ugly, short laugh that betrayed no good will, and a way of gazing
afar while he talked.
Just now he had much to conceal. He was concerned as he listened to
the low rich tones that were somehow so different from that which he
knew they could be when the mood behind them was soft and yielding. And
his concern was twofold.
He was searching to discover the easiest means of meeting and
countering the bill which was being presented through the lips of the
beautiful half-breed, and, at the same time, wondering how best it
could be used to further his official plans.
“Do we need to worry, kid?” he asked, in reply to her spoken fear of
her father and the Wolf when they finally discovered the truth of the
thing lying between them. “I don’t guess so. You’re not a child. You’re
a woman with the right to love where you feel like it. Pideau’s your
father all right. But fathers don’t count with a grown woman. As for
Mister Wolf, where does he come in anyway? He’s not even a brother.”
Annette turned away. She stood with one arm spread out on the top rail
of the fence gazing across at the store.
“That’s the worry of it,” she sighed, and her brows drew in a
thoughtful pucker.
There was an intake of breath. The man watched the heave of a bosom
that fascinated him. He was wondering what still lay waiting for him
behind those eyes, that studied quiet, which was so unlike the girl as
he knew her.
Annette’s purpose was quite definite. She knew her mind on every
subject that concerned herself. She saw that opportunity was looming,
the opportunity she had deliberately sought. And she meant to grab it,
and hold it, and hug it to herself.
For ten years she had been dragged in the wake of the machine which
her father and the Wolf operated. For ten years she had been compelled
by Pideau to do her share in the work that was pouring dollars into
the coffers of a partnership in which she had no place. She knew she
was a mere chattel in the life of her parent. And she believed she
was no better than a property, to be cared for, cajoled, and teased,
and fought, where the Wolf, her old playmate, was concerned. She told
herself she was forced to live and act as her menfolk dictated. And it
was her life to work without pay or interest and to content herself
with such dole as might come her way.
The girl’s volcanic temper frantically rebelled. For her father she
possessed no regard whatsoever. She knew him and read him like an open
book. He sickened her, not for his crimes, but for the brutishness that
rendered him so unlovely. Hitherto the bond of simple relationship
had been strong enough to hold her. Hitherto she had yielded to her
serfdom. But with the coming of Ernest Sinclair into her life the
Rubicon had been crossed. She was a child no longer.
Now she was alive with flaming passions. The irresistible laws of
Nature had proclaimed themselves in no uncertain fashion. Like the
offspring of the beasts of the forest, whence she hailed, her life was
her own. She was as ready as they to turn and slash with gleaming teeth
the parent who had given her being.
The Wolf occupied a wholly different plane from the father. The Wolf
had always been Annette’s playmate. He had been more--much more.
Only the girl refused to realize it. He had been the most intimate
participant in her life. He was part of it. There was no moment in
it, whether of joy, or sorrow, or anger, that had not in some way
been associated with the Wolf. He was as much a part of her being as
the warm breath that passed her pretty lips. But because that was so,
because he was the Wolf, because she could think of nothing in her life
without him, she the more surely resented him.
The whole position was one of warfare between conflicting wills, active
on her part, and on his confident, smiling passivity. The battle had
begun far back in their earliest childhood. It had gone on ever since.
Its fundamental was without hate. On the contrary a wealth of affection
and loyalty lay lost under the débris of conflict they had succeeded in
piling upon it. They had always been inseparable. They were verily twin
in soul. And for that very reason the war between them had always been
the more bitter.
It was strange. Neither seemed to be capable of penetrating the fog
that blinded them. And so the bitter antagonism went on and would
continue to go on to its logical, human conclusion.
And with conditions prevailing, with Annette’s reckless impulse always
driving her, a man like Ernest Sinclair was bound to find a part in
the play of it all. He was a policeman, and so in direct opposition
to Pideau and the Wolf. He was white and personable in a passionate,
impulsive woman’s eyes. The Wolf resented him and said so. Then
what more was needed? It infuriated the Wolf to know of Annette’s
friendliness with Sinclair. So Annette had seen to it that she was
very, very friendly.
The result was foredoomed. Annette was beautiful. She was superb in her
youth, and full of the sexual potentialities of her race. And the man?
Well, Sinclair was what he was without pretense. And so the Nemesis.
Annette believed she loved. Sinclair only needed to raise a beckoning
finger for the girl to follow him to the world’s end.
“They’ll kill us when they know.”
Annette spoke with a little catch of breath that was something feigned.
The man responded with derisive laughter. He leaned down with his arms
folded on the rail, and one hand fondled the slim fingers of the girl.
“They’ll kill us, will they?” he said, in a low, amused, but wholly
watchful manner. He shook his head. “Not on your life. Pideau can hate
all he pleases, but he’s not figgering to quit his play for the end of
a rope fixed around his dirty neck. And he’ll see to it the Wolf don’t
cut off the tide of dollars pouring into his bank roll. No, kid. Beat
that stuff out of your pretty head. How’re they to know, anyway? Guess
we aren’t shouting things.”
For some moments Annette submitted to the caress of the man’s fleshy
hand. She was thinking hard. She was calculating. But more than all,
she was battling with the woman she was powerless to deny.
At last she turned. Her big bold eyes were hidden. She drew a sharp
breath which had no pretense in it. She had finally made up her mind.
It was a tremendous moment, and she would willingly have escaped it.
But reckless purpose was all too strong.
“They’ll know--come fall. Everybody’ll know.”
The man’s caresses ceased. But the girl’s clinging hand retained his.
Sinclair had straightened up with a jolt. The low-spoken confession had
startled him. For want of other attraction his gaze sought again the
trader’s store, and derision had faded out of his eyes. The bill was
bigger than he had believed possible.
Annette released his hand. Her movement was quick. It was almost rough.
She turned her face up and her black eyes were no longer hidden. They
were wide and alight with the fire of passion.
“Oh, Ernie,” she cried, her small hands clenching. “I never thought.
I just loved you to death. You said there’d be no harm, an’--an’ I
believed you, an’--an’ anyway I didn’t care so you loved me. Now I
know. Now I can see. An’--an’ I’m scared. Oh, they’ll know before next
winter. All the folks’ll know. You don’t know Pideau. You don’t know
the Wolf. They’ll kill you. Maybe they’ll kill me, too. If they don’t
shoot me to death they’ll turn me out into the snow to herd with the
wolves, with--with--our baby. It’s no use. You needn’t shake your head.
Say, I know the Wolf.”
“Ernie,” she urged with increasing vehemence, her hands unclenching and
grasping the fur covering of the man’s powerful arm, “ther’s just one
way. You got to fix it so they can’t. Don’t hand ’em a chance. D’you
see? Married, with our baby thing born right, they can’t do a thing.
Ther’ ain’t a man or woman in Buffalo Coulee but’ll be right on our
side. An’ your folks, your superintendent, all the police. They’ll be
for us, sure. It’s----”
Sinclair released his arm without gentleness. There was a queer look in
the glassy eyes that looked down into the girl’s.
“You’re rattled, kid, plumb rattled!” he cried.
Then of a sudden his whole manner underwent a change. He knew now the
full extent of the bill he had to meet, and in one revealing flash he
had discovered the means whereby he could settle it.
“It’s not as easy as it sounds, little kid,” he said, as he again took
possession of the only too willing hands. “Oh, I can marry you all
right. I’ll be crazy glad to. But--but you’ve got to help me.”
The girl’s eyes reflected the effect of his ready assent. They were
shining with a great light. She was thrilled.
A time-worn phrase flashed through her mind.
“You’ll marry me, sure!”
Not once but many, many times she had been forced to listen to it. It
was the Wolf’s unfailing retort to her fiercest challenge.
Her sense of triumph now became supreme. It was triumph in her
everlasting battle with the Wolf. Married to Sinclair, her baby born in
wedlock, she felt that at long last she was to wrest the victory her
fiercest impishness had failed so far to yield her. Help? Help? It was
her lover’s without the asking.
“Tell me?” she cried eagerly in the uplift of the moment.
But Sinclair hesitated. It was necessary for her to urge him a second
time.
“Well?” she demanded, with a flash of swift impatience.
Annette missed the meaning of Sinclair’s hesitation. She missed the
cunning that grew in the man’s smile. She failed to realize that his
gaze had wandered and was searching the distance. She saw nothing in
that moment but her own triumph, and her own desire for him to go on.
“You know, kid, I’ve wanted all along to have you marry me,” the man
said. “I’ve wanted that since ever I saw your dandy eyes that couldn’t
help telling me all a feller yearns for in life. I bin crazy for you.
I’ll go right on being crazy for you all my life. But--but I haven’t a
thing but my p’lice pay. And that wouldn’t buy a right feedin’ bottle
for our swell kiddie. Then there’s regulations. Oh, I don’t mean they
forbid a constable getting married. They don’t. But the government
makes it hard as hell for that to happen. And when it does it’s queer
how quick the married boy finds himself quitting the Force. You got
to be a corporal at least. Then the Superintendent, the Inspector,
the Sergeant-major, they’ll all hand you all they know, so you can
fix yourself and your wife right. I’m not a corporal. I’m only a
constable. But I’m going to be a corporal. Later, I’m going to be a
sergeant-major. And maybe, even, in a while, an inspector. I’ll get to
be all those things later, if--you’ll help me right now.”
The girl’s expression changed with every phase of her feelings as she
listened to the man’s carefully considered words. And as he ceased
speaking her eagerness was beyond her control.
“Say, Ernie! How? You only need to say how. Help you? Why, ther’ ain’t
a thing I wouldn’t do.”
“Isn’t there?”
Sinclair came close up to the rail. He bent down so that his face was
on a level with Annette’s. He looked squarely into the eyes which
peered out from her storm collar, and he used all the force of will he
possessed.
The girl gestured eloquently.
“Not a thing.”
“It’s easy--if you’ve the grit?” he warned, noting the unease that
crept into the girl’s eyes in response.
“The grit?”
“Grit, little kid. Something that don’t rightly belong to a girl’s
ordinary make-up.”
Annette’s eyes flashed dangerously.
“I got grit--plenty. Try me,” she snapped.
Again came Sinclair’s laugh.
“You got no use for Pideau,” he said. “And the Wolf sets you crazy mad.
You’ve said so. You guess you hate the Wolf, who reckons to force you
to marry him whether you like it or not. That’s so, isn’t it? That’s
how you’ve said.”
He waited for Annette’s responsive nod.
“They bulldoze you between ’em,” he went on. “They set you working to
hand ’em dollars. They hold you to a play that stands you in reach of
penitentiary. That’s so. You’re as deep in as them. Well, in one play
you can cut it all out. In one play you can make it so I can marry you
right off. And it’s a play that’ll bring those two boys up with a round
turn before they reach for the rope they’re surely heading for. Sooner
or later there’ll be a shoot-up. And that means the rope. Well, you can
help me. You can fix things. And when we’re married, and your little
kid, our little kid’s born right, you’ll be glad for what you’ve done.
And you’ll see your man with swell gold chevrons on his arm, and the
pay that hands you the sort of stuff you need from life. You can do it,
kid. You surely can.”
The man was watching. His eyes never left the girl’s.
“How?” Annette asked in a whisper.
The man spoke on the instant. His whole manner was sharp and compelling.
“Show me the location of that darn still! That’s all. Just show me.”
Annette started back as though he had struck her in the face. Her lips
sucked in the cold air, and the color faded out of her cheeks.
“Me hand them--penitentiary? Me?” she gasped.
“Do you want to herd with the wolves in snow-time? Say, there’ll be no
marrying talk when the Wolf knows. The Wolf, who reckons you’re marked
down his chattel. The Wolf, who you can’t ever hope to stand up to.”
The manner of it was wanton in its ruthlessness.
“The still? Tell you? God! No, Ernie! I just can’t do it!”
The girl stood off, staggered by the enormity of the thing he had
demanded of her. Horror and a fierce reaction were surging.
But Sinclair had played his card to take the trick. The values lay
on the table for the girl to see. He could afford to wait while she
studied them, before the cards were turned and shut away.
His manner softened. But he did not look in her direction. He was
watching a quick-moving figure in a pea-jacket that had just left the
store across the township.
“Say, little kid, don’t worry a thing,” he soothed her. “Forget it,” he
went on, with a short laugh. “Don’t try to say a thing now. I wouldn’t
have you to. You see, I just love you to death. I’m crazy to have you
my wife. If I don’t get that promotion, why, we’ll just have to wait
around till I do. See? Maybe that’ll mean a year or so. Still I just
want you, kid, and I’ll wait sure. Now beat it. It’s time I fixed my
plugs back in the barn. And anyway, I’ve just seen that darn skulking
Wolf slide out of the store. Beat it, kid, and think things out in your
own cute way.”