WHERE THE LAWS OF MIGHT ALONE PREVAIL
Two men occupied the back room of Victor Gagnon's store. The proprietor,
small, alert, with eye and brain working swiftly, and an expression on
his dark face indicating the angry nature of his thoughts. He was
sitting with his feet on the stove rail and his hands spread out to the
warmth. The other man was beside the parchment-covered window. He was
immensely tall, and was clad in grey wolfskin from head to foot. His
broad shoulders were broadened by the fur covering till he looked a
giant. He had just thrown back a cavernous hood from his head, and it
now hung down his back. His fur cap was removed, thus displaying a
coarse mane of long black hair, and a face as sombre and strong as the
world to which he belonged.
The room was untidy. The bed stood at one end, and the tumbled blankets
upon it looked as though they had not been straightened for weeks. A
small table supported the remains of a frugal meal and the floor about
it was littered with food and crumbs. Everywhere were signs of
half-breed slovenliness.
For some moments silence had reigned. The North, that Land of Silence,
makes men sparing of words, and even women only talk when it is
necessary. Just now, there was that between these two men which held
every thought to the main issue.
Victor's attention was for the moment upon a rough-hewn chest which was
standing on the floor at the big man's feet.
"An' why didn't she come right along with you?"
"Mebbe cos she's smarter nor any o' us; mebbe cos I jest didn't want her
to. There's somethin' 'tween you an' me, Victor, that needs some
parley."
The big man spoke quite calmly, but his very calmness was portentous.
"Smarter?" said Victor contemptuously, ignoring the latter part of the
other's remark.
"That's what I said," went on the giant, in dispassionate tones. "Davia
reckoned as it wa'n't jest safe to light right out lest them fellers
found they'd been robbed o' their wad. She's stayin' around to put 'em
off'n the trail. They're dead sweet on her an' ain't likely to 'spect
who's got the stuff while she's around."
Victor nodded approvingly. His face was less angry. He knew Davia would
serve him well. A silence fell again. The stove roared under the forced
draught of the damper. Then the big man spoke as though he had not
broken off.
"But that ain't on'y the reason, I guess. I wanted her to stay. You an'
me are goin' to talk, Victor Gagnon."
The trader glanced angrily at the man with the hood.
"See here, Jean Leblaude, you allus had a crank in yer head, an' I don't
cotton to cranks anyhow."
"But you'll cotton to this," replied Jean drily.
"Eh?"
"It's nigh on to three year since you an' sister Davi' took on
together," he went on, ignoring the interruption, and speaking with
great feeling. "Guess you said as you'd marry her when you was
independent o' the company. It was allus the company. Didn't want no
married traders on their books. An' you hadn't no cash pappy. That's how
you sed. Mebbe it's different now. Wal? When are you goin' to make her a
de--your wife?"
There was a look in Jean's eyes that brooked no denial or evasion. He
had driven straight to the point, nor was there any likelihood of his
drawing back.
"You're pretty rough," said Victor, with an unpleasant laugh. He was
inwardly raging, but, like all men of no great moral strength, feared
the direct challenge of the other.
"We ain't polished folk hereabouts," retorted Jean. "We've played the
dirty game o' the White Squaw for you' clear out. Davi's most as dead
sick of it as me, but wher' she went into it fer a frolic an' to please
you, I had my notions, I guess. I come clear away down from Peace River
nigh on two summers ago jest fer to see that you acted squar' by that
misguided girl. An' that's why I done all your dirty work in this White
Squaw racket. Now we've got the boodle you're goin' to hitch up wi'
Davi', or--"
"Or--what?" broke in Victor contemptuously.
"Or not one blazin' cent o' the stuff in this chest'll you touch."
Victor sprang from his seat and his eyes shone furiously.
"You--you--" But his fury was baffled by the solemn, determined stare of
the other. A moment more and he dropped back in his seat.
Then the great Jean lowered his eyes to the hewn chest upon the floor.
The lid had been forced open and the bags of gold dust, so carefully
arranged by the Westleys, were displayed within. Presently he looked
back at the angry figure bending towards the stove.
"Guess I'll git blankets out o' your store," he said.
Victor remained rapt in moody silence.
"Ther' ain't room fer two to sleep comfort'ble in that bed o' yourn," he
added significantly, as the other showed no inclination to speak.
At last Victor looked up and the dark half-breed blood slowly mounted
and flushed his narrow face.
"You're goin' to stop here--wher' the stuff is?"
"I guess."
The trader looked long into the cavernous moose-eyes of the Hooded Man
while he choked down the rage which consumed him. He knew that he was a
prisoner in his own store. Resistance would be utterly useless against
such a man as Jean Leblaude.
In his scheme for obtaining wealth Victor had omitted to take into
consideration one of the great factors of a life of wrong-doing. A man
may not engage in crime with those whom he has wronged.
Victor had sought to obtain good service, forgetting the manner in which
he had treated the sister of Jean. The ways of the half-breed are loose
in the matter of morals. Davia, he knew, loved him. She was a strong,
passionate woman, therefore he had not bothered about Jean. That Jean
could possibly have scruples or feelings, had never entered his head.
Davia had given her love, then what business of her brother's was the
manner in which he, Victor, chose to accept it? This is how he argued
when he fully realized the position in which he had thrust himself. But
his argument went no further.
Jean was a man strong and purposeful. He had waited long for such an
opportunity, and he was not the one to forego his advantage without
enforcing his will. If Victor wanted his share of the proceeds of the
robbery he must fulfil the promise, which, in a passionate moment, he
had bestowed. Davia was as clay in his hands. Jean was different. He was
possessed of all the cunning of the half-breed nature, but, looked at
from a half-breed point of view, he was a good man, an honest man. A
half-breed will shoot an enemy down in his tracks, while yet he is a
good father and husband, or a dutiful son. He is a man of much badness
and some good. Jean was a little above the average. Possibly it was
because his affections were centred upon but one creature in the world,
his sister Davia, that he felt strongly in her cause. He knew that, at
last, he held Victor in a powerful grip, and he did not intend to relax
it.
Jean was as good as his word and took up his abode in Victor's store.
Nor would he permit the removal of the treasure under any pretext. This
brother of Davia's understood the trader; he did not watch him; it was
the chest that contained the money that occupied his vigilance.
Victor was resourceful and imaginative, but the stolid purpose of the
other defied his best schemes. He meant to get away with the money, but
the bulldog watchfulness of Jean gave him no opportunity. He was held
prisoner by his greed, and it seemed as if, in the end, he would be
forced to bend to the other's will.
And no word came from Davia. No word that could cause alarm, or tell
them of the dire tragedy being enacted in the mountains. And the two
men, one for ever scheming and the other watching, passed their time in
moody silence.
It was the third day after the foregoing events had taken place, and
midday. Victor was in the store standing in the doorway gazing out
across the mighty foothills which stretched far as the eyes could reach
to the east. He was thinking, casting about in his mind for a means of
getting away with the money. Jean was at his post in the inner room.
It was an unbeautiful time of the year. The passing of winter in snow
regions is like the moulting season of fowls, or the season when the
furred world sheds its coat. The dazzling whiteness of the earth is
superseded by a dirty drab-grey. The snow lasts long, but its hue is
utterly changed. And now Victor was looking out upon a scene that was
wholly dispiriting to the mind used to the brilliancy of the northern
winter.
The trader's thoughts were moving along out over the stretch of country
before him, for in that southeastern direction lay the town of Edmonton,
which was his goal. It would be less than a fortnight before the melting
snow would practically inundate the land, therefore what he had to do
must be done at once. And still no feasible scheme presented itself.
He moved impatiently and a muttered curse escaped him. He asked himself
the question again and again while his keen, restless eyes moved eagerly
over the scene before him. He took a chew of tobacco and rolled it about
in his mouth with the nervous movement of a man beset. He could hear
Jean moving heavily about the room behind him, and he wondered what he
was doing. But he did not turn to see.
Once let him get upon the trail with the "stuff," and Jean and his
sister could go hang. They would never get him, he told himself. He had
not lived in these latitudes for five and twenty years for nothing. But
he ever came back to the pitiful admission that he was not yet on the
trail, nor had he got the treasure. And time was passing.
Suddenly his eyes settled themselves upon a distant spot beyond the
creek. Something had caught his attention, and that something was
moving. The sounds of Jean's lumbering movements continued. Victor no
longer heeded them. His attention was fixed upon that movement on the
distant slope.
And gradually his brow lightened and something akin to a smile spread
over his features. Then he moved back to his counter, and, procuring a
small calendar, glanced hastily at the date. His look of satisfaction
deepened, and his smile became one of triumph. Surely the devil was with
him. Here, in the blackest moment of his despair, was the means he had
sought. Yonder moving object was the laden dog-train coming up from
Edmonton, with his half-yearly supplies. Now he would see whose wits
were the sharpest, his or those of the pig-headed Jean, the man who had
dared to dictate to Victor Gagnon. The trader laughed silently.
Gagnon's plan had come to him in a flash. The moment he had recognized
that the company's dog-train was approaching he had realized the
timeliness of its coming. It would be at his door within an hour and a
half.
Jean's voice calling him broke in upon his meditations. He was about to
pass the summons by unheeded. Then he altered his mind. Better not force
his gaoler to seek him. His eyes might see what he had seen, and his
suspicions might be aroused if he thought that he, Victor, had seen the
dog-train coming and had said nothing. So he turned and obeyed the call
with every appearance of reluctance.
Jean eyed his prisoner coldly as he drew up beside him.
"Wal, I've waited fer you to say as ye'll marry Davi', an' ye ain't had
the savvee to wag yer tongue right, I'm goin' to quit. The snow's goin'
fast. They dogs o' mine is gettin saft fer want o' work. I'm goin' to
light right out o' here, Victor, an' the boodle's goin' wi' me."
Jean was the picture of strong, unimaginative purpose. But Victor had
that in his mind which made him bold.
"Ye've held me prisoner, Jean. Ye've played the skunk. Guess you ain't
goin' now. Neither is my share o' the contents o' that chest. Savvee? If
ye think o' moving that wad we're goin' to scrap. I ain't no coyote."
Jean thought for awhile. His lean face displayed no emotion. His giant
figure dwarfed the trader almost to nothing, but he seemed to weigh the
situation well before he committed himself.
At last he grunted, which was his way of announcing that his decision
was taken.
"I'll have they dogs hitched this afternoon," he said slowly, and with
meaning.
"An' I'll set right here by the door," said Gagnon. "Guess the door'll
let you pass, but it ain't big enough fer the chest to git through."
Victor sat himself down as he said and deliberately pulled out a large
revolver. This he laid across his lap. And then the two men eyed each
other. Jean was in no way taken aback. In fact nothing seemed to put him
out of his deliberate manner. He allowed the challenge to pass and went
out. But he returned almost immediately and thrust his head in through
the doorway.
"Ther' won't be no need fer scrappin' yet awhile," he said. "I 'lows
I've changed my way o' thinkin'. The company's dog-train is comin' up
the valley, I guess. When they've gone, we'll see."
And Victor smiled to himself when the giant had once more departed. Then
he put his pistol away.
"Wal, that's settled," he said to himself. "The boodle stops right here.
Now we'll see, Jean Leblaude, who's runnin' this layout. Ther's whiskey
aboard that train. Mebbe you ain't like to fergit that. You'll taste
sure. As ye jest sed, 'we'll see.'"
The trader knew his man. The great Jean had all the half-breed's
weaknesses as well as a more than usual supply of their better
qualities. Sober he was more than dangerous, now that he had shown his
real intentions, for he was a man not likely to be turned from his
purpose. But Victor knew his fondness for drink, and herein lay the
kernel of his plan. With him it was a case of now or never. He must
throw everything to the winds for that money, or be burdened with a wife
he did not want, and a brother-in-law he wanted less, with only a third
of that which his greedy heart thirsted for. No, he would measure swords
with Jean, and though his blade was less stout than that of the stolid
giant he relied upon its superior keenness and lightness. He meant to
win.
The company's dog-train came up. Two sleds, each hauled by ten great
huskies. They were laden down with merchandise: groceries, blankets,
implements, medicines and a supply of spirits, for medicinal purposes
only. Just the usual freight which comes to every trader in the wild.
Such stuff as trappers and Indians need and are willing to take in part
payment for their furs. But Victor only cared for the supply of spirits
just then. He paid unusual attention, however, to the condition of the
dogs.
The train was escorted by two half-breeds, one driving each sled. These
were experienced hands, servants who had grown old in the service of the
company. Men whose responsibility began when they hit the trail, and
ceased when they arrived at their destination.
Pierre was a grizzled veteran, and his was the charge of the journey.
Ambrose was his assistant. Victor understood these men, and made no
delay in displaying his hospitality when the work of unloading was
completed. A ten-gallon keg of Hudson's Bay Rum was part of the
consignment, and this was tapped at once by the wily trader.
The four men were gathered in the back room of the store when Victor
turned on the tap and the thick brown stream gurgled forth from the
cask. He poured out a tot for each of the train drivers. Then he stood
uncertainly and looked over at Jean. The latter had seated himself over
against the stove and appeared to take little interest in what was going
on. Victor stood with one foot tapping the floor impatiently. He had
been quick to notice that Jean's great eyes had stolen in the direction
of the little oaken keg. At last he threw the tin beaker aside as if in
disgust. He played his part consummately.
"'Tain't no go, boys. I'm not drinkin'. Thet's what. Look at him," he
cried, pointing at Jean. "We've had words, I guess. Him an' me, an' he's
that riled as he don't notion suppin' good thick rum wi' us. Wal, I
guess it'll keep, what you boys can't do in. Ther's the pannikin, ther's
the keg. Jest help yourselves, lads, when you fancy. I ain't tastin'
with bad blood runnin' in this shack."
"What, no drink?" cried old Pierre, his face beaming with oily
geniality. "Dis no lak ole time, Victor. What's de fuss? Mebbe I tink
right. Squaw, Vic, squaw."
The old boy chuckled heartily at his pleasantry. He was a
French-Canadian half-breed and spoke with a strong foreign accent.
Ambrose joined in the laugh.
"Ho, Jean, man," cried the latter. "No bad blood, I'm guessin'. Ther's
good thick rum, lad, an' I mind you're a'mighty partial most gener'ly."
Victor had started the ball rolling, and he knew that neither Pierre nor
Ambrose were likely to let it rest until they had had all the rum they
wanted. Everything had been made snug for the night so they only had
their own pleasure to consider. As Ambrose's challenge fell upon his
ears Jean looked up. His eyes were very bright and they rested longingly
upon the keg on their way to the driver's face. He shook his head, but
there was not much decision in the movement.
Pierre seeing the action stepped up to him and shook a warning finger in
his face.
"Hey, you, Jean-le-gros, pig-head. We come lak Hell, four hundred mile
to see you. We bring you drink, everyting. You not say 'How.' We not
welcome. Bah, I spit! In my Quebec we lak our frien's to come. We treat.
All is theirs. Bah, I spit again."
Jean looked slightly abashed. Then Ambrose chimed in.
"Out of the durned way, froggy," he said, swinging Pierre aside by the
shoulder, "you don't understand our ways, I guess. Ther' ain't no
slobberin' wi' white folk. Here you, Vic, hold out yer hand, man, and
shake wi' Jean. We're goin' to hev a time to-night, or I'll quit the
road for ever."
Victor shrugged. Then he picked up a pannikin and filled it with rum. He
held it out in his left hand towards Jean while he offered his right in
token of friendship. Jean eyed the outstretched hand. Then he looked at
the rum, and the insidious odour filled his nostrils. The temptation was
too great, as Victor knew it would be, for him. He thrust one great hand
into the trader's and the two men shook; then he took the drink and
gulped it down.
The armistice was declared, and Victor, in imagination, already saw the
treasure his.
Now the pannikin passed round merrily. The room reeked with the pungent
odour of the spirit and all was apparently harmonious. Victor resigned
his post as dispenser of liquor to Ambrose, and began his series of
stock entertainments. He drank as little as possible himself, though he
could not openly shirk his drink, and he always kept one eye upon Jean
to see that he was well supplied; and so the time slipped by.
After the first taste Jean became a different man; he laughed and jested
in his slow, coarse fashion, and, with him, all seemed good-fellowship.
Pierre and Ambrose soon began to get drunk and Victor's voice, as he
sang, was mostly drowned by the rolling tones of these hoary-headed old
sinners as they droned out the choruses of his songs.
Now, as the merriment waxed, Victor was able to shirk his drink
deliberately. Jean seemed insatiable, and soon his great body swayed in
a most drunken fashion, and he clung to his seat as if fearing to trust
his legs. He joined in every chorus and never lost an opportunity of
addressing Victor in terms of deepest friendliness. And in every pause
in the noise he seized upon the chance to burst out into some wild ditty
of his own. Victor watched with cat-like vigilance, and what he saw
pleased him mightily. Jean was drunk. And he would see to it that before
he had done the giant would be hopelessly so.
Evening came on. Ambrose was the first to collapse. The others laughed
and left him to his deep dreamless slumber upon the floor. Victor was
wearied of it all, but he knew he must see the game out. Jean's eyelids
were drooping heavily, and he, too, seemed on the verge of collapse.
Only old Pierre, hardened to the ways of his life, flagged not. Suddenly
the Frenchman saw Jean's head droop forward. In a moment he was on his
unsteady legs and filling a pannikin to the brim. He laughed as he drew
Victor's attention, and the latter nodded approval. Then he put it to
the giant's lips. The big man supped a little of it, then, his head
falling further forward, he upset the pannikin, and the contents poured
upon the earthen floor. At the same time, as though utterly helpless, he
rolled off his seat and fell to the ground, snoring heavily. Pierre
shouted his delight. Only Victor and he were left. They knew how to take
their liquor, the old hands. His pride of achievement was great. He
would see Victor under the table, too, he told himself. He stood over
the trader while the latter drank a bumper. Then he, himself, drank to
the dregs. It was the last straw. He swayed and lurched to the outer
door. There he stood for a moment, then the cold night air did for him
what the rum had been powerless to do. Without warning he fell in a heap
upon the doorstep as unconscious as though he had been struck dead.
Victor alone kept his head.
The trader rose from his seat and stretched himself. Then, stealthily,
he went the round of the prostrate men. He shook Ambrose, but could not
wake him. Jean he stood over for awhile and silently watched the stern
face. There was not a shade of consciousness in its expression. He bent
down and touched him. Still no movement. He shook him gently, then more
roughly. He was like a log. Victor grinned with a fiendish leer.
"Guess he's fixed," he muttered.
Then he went out into the store and came to the door where old Pierre
had fallen. The Frenchman was no better than the others.
"Good! By Gar, Jean, my friend, I've done you," he said to himself, as,
reassured, he went back to the inner room. He was none too steady
himself, but he had all his wits about him. The chest was near the bed.
He picked it up and opened it. The treasure was there safe enough. He
closed the lid and took it up in his arms, and passed out of the store.
Nor did he look back. He was anxious to be gone.
It was the chance of his lifetime, he told himself, as he hastened to
deposit the chest in the sled. Now he set about obtaining his blankets
and provisions. His journey would be an arduous one, and nobody knew
better than he the barrenness of that Northwestern land while the icy
grip of winter still clings. A large quantity of the food stuffs which
had only arrived that day was returned to the sled, and some of the new
blankets. Then he shipped a rifle and ammunition.
Now was the trader to be seen in his true light. Here was emergency,
when all veneer fell from him as the green coat of summer falls from the
trees at the first breath of winter. His haste was not the swift
movements of a man whose nerve is steady. He knew that he had at least
twelve hours before any one of the three men were likely to awaken from
their drunken stupor. And yet he feared. Nor did he know what he feared.
And his nerves made him savage as he handled the dogs. They were living
creatures and could feel, so he wantonly belted them with a club lest
they should hesitate to obey their new master. The great wolfish
creatures had more courage than he had; they took the unjust treatment
without open complaint, as is the way of the husky, tacitly resenting it
and eying with fierce, contemptuous eyes the cowardly wretch who so
treated them. They slunk slowly and with down-drooped tails and
bristling manes into their places in the traces, and stood ready for the
word to pull. Victor surveyed them with little satisfaction, for now
that all was ready to march he was beset with moral apprehensions.
He could not throw off his dread. It may have been that he feared that
bleak four hundred mile journey. It may have been the loneliness which
he contemplated. It may have been that he recollected the time when
those whom he had robbed had saved him from the storm, away back there
in the heart of the mountains. He shivered, and started at every
night-sound that broke the stillness.
The lead dog lay down in the sloppy snow. Victor flew into a passion,
and, running forward, dealt the poor brute a kick that would have been
sufficient to break an ordinary dog's ribs. With a wicked snarl the
beast rose solemnly to its feet. Suddenly its wolf-ears pricked and it
stared out keenly ahead. The man looked too. It seemed to him that he
had heard the sound of some one walking. He gazed long and earnestly out
into the darkness, but all seemed quite still. He looked at the dog
again. Its ears were still pricked, but they were twitching uncertainly,
as though not sure of the direction whence the sound had come.
Victor cursed the brute and moved back to the sled. The word "Mush" was
hovering on his lips. Suddenly his eyes chanced upon the slumbering form
of old Pierre lying in a heap where he had fallen in the doorway. It is
impossible to say what made him pause to give a second thought to those
he was leaving behind. He had known Pierre for years, and had always
been as friendly as his selfish, cruel nature would permit. Perhaps some
such feeling now made him hesitate. It might even have been his
knowledge of the wild that made him view the helpless figure with some
concern. The vagaries of human nature are remarkable. Something held
him, then he turned quickly from the sled, and stepping up to the old
man's side, stooped, and putting his arms about him, dragged him bodily
into the store. Pierre did not rouse but remained quite still where
Victor left him. Then the trader went out again. His back was turned as
he reached to close the door. It would not quite shut and he pulled it
hard. Then, as it still resisted his efforts, he turned away. As he
turned he reeled back with a great cry.
Something large and dark faced him. And, even in the darkness, he could
make out a shining ring of metal close in front of his face.
Victor's horror-stricken cry was the only sound that came. In the
twinkling of an eye the metal ring disappeared. Victor felt two bony
hands seize him by the throat. The next instant he was hurled to the
ground, and a knee was upon his chest. A weight compressed his lungs and
he could scarcely breathe. Then he felt the revolver belt dragged from
about his waist and his long sheath-knife withdrawn from its sheath.
Then, and not till then, the pressure on his chest relaxed, and the hand
that had gripped his throat released its hold. The next moment he was
lifted to his feet as though he were a mere puppet, and the voice of
Jean Leblaude broke harshly upon his ears.
"Guess your bluff wa'n't wuth a cent, Victor Gagnon. I see'd this comin'
the minit you pass'd me the drink. I 'lows ye ken mostly tell a skunk by
the stink. I rec'nized you awhiles back. Guess you ain't lightin' out o'
here this night. Come right along."
The trader had no choice. Jean had him foul, gripping him with a clutch
that was vise-like. The giant's great strength was irresistible when put
forth in the deadly earnestness of passion, and just now he could hardly
hold his hand from breaking the neck which was so slight beneath his
sinewy fingers.
Just for one instant Victor made a faint struggle. As well attempt to
resist Doom. Jean shook him like a rat and thrust him before him in the
direction of the woods behind the store.
"You'll pay fer this," the trader said, between his teeth.
But Jean gave no heed to his impotent rage. He pushed him along in
silence, nor did he pause till the secret huts were reached. He opened
the door of one and dragged his captive in. There was no light within.
But this seemed no embarrassment to the purposeful man. He strode
straight over to one corner of the room and took a long, plaited lariat
from the wall. In three minutes Victor was trussed and laid upon the
ground bound up like a mummy.
Now Jean lighted a lamp and looked down at his victim; there was not the
faintest sign of drink about him, and as Victor noticed this he cursed
himself bitterly.
There was an impressive silence. Then Jean's words came slowly. He
expressed no emotion, no passion; just the purpose of a strong man who
moves relentlessly on to his desired end.
Gagnon realized to the full the calamity which had befallen him.
"Ye'll wait right here till Davi' gits back. She's goin' to git her ears
full o' you, I guess. Say, she was sweet on you--mighty sweet. But she's
that sensible as it don't worry any. Say, you ain't goin' to marry that
gal; ye never meant to. You're a skunk, an' I'd as lief choke the life
out o' ye as not. But I'm goin' to pay ye sorer than that. Savvee? Ye'll
bide here till Davi' comes. I'll jest fix this wedge in your mouth till
I've cleared them drivers out o' the store. I don't fancy to hear your
lungs exercisin' when I'm busy."
With easy deftness Jean gagged his prisoner. Then he glanced round the
windowless shack to see if there was any weapon or other thing about
that could possibly assist the trader to free himself. Having assured
himself that all was safe he put out the light and passed out, securing
the door behind him.