When Gunpowder Speaks
Hugo Ennis, a man well under thirty, tall and spare of form, with the
lithe and active limbs that are capable of hard and prolonged action,
had stood for a time by the tough door of his little shack. It was a
single-roomed affair, quite large enough for a lone man, which he had
carefully built of peeled logs. Within it there was a bunk fixed
against the wall, upon which his heavy blankets had been folded in a
neat pile, for he was a man of some order. Near the other end there
was a stove, a good one that could keep the place warm and amply
sufficed for his simple cookery. The table was of axe-hewn cedar
planks and the two chairs had been rustically designed of the same
material. Between the logs forming the walls the spaces had been
chinked with moss, covered with blue clay taken from the river-bank,
above the falls. Strong pegs had been driven into the heavy wood and
from them hung traps and a couple of guns, with spare snowshoes and
odd pieces of apparel. In a corner of the room there were steel
hand-drills, heavy hammers, a pick and a shovel. Against the walls he
had built strong shelves that held perhaps a score of books and a
varied assortment of groceries. More of these latter articles had been
placed on a swinging board hung from the roof, out of reach of
thieving rodents.
He had been looking down, over the great rocky ledge at one side of
his shack, into the big pool of the Roaring River, which at this time
was but a wild jam of huge slabs of ice insecurely soldered together
by snow and the spray from the falls. Beneath that jumbled mass he
knew that the water was straining and groaning and swirling until it
found under the thick ice the outlet that would lead it towards the
big lake to the eastward. Although the middle of March was at hand
there was not the slightest sign of any breaking up. He knew that it
would take a long time yet before the snows began to melt, the ice to
become thinner on the lakes and the waters to rise, brown and turbid
with the earth torn from the banks and the sand ever ground up in the
rough play of turbulent waters with rolling boulders.
Yet the coming of spring was not so very far off now and the days were
growing longer. It would take but a few weeks before the first great
wedges of flying geese would pass high above him in their journey to
the shallows of the Hudson's Bay, where they nested in myriads. And
then other birds would follow until the smallest arrived, chirping
with the joy of the slumbering earth's awakening.
It was a glorious country, he truly believed. The winter had been long
but the hunting and trapping had kept him busy enough. The days had
seemed too short to become dreary and he had slept long during the
nights, seldom awakening at the rumblings of the maddened pent-up
waters or the sharp explosions of great trees cracking in the fierce
cold. But he was glad of the prospect of renewed hard work upon his
claim, of promising toil to expose further the great silver-bearing
veins of calcite that wound their way through the harder rock. He knew
that his find was of the sort that had flooded the Nipissing and the
Gowganda countries with eager searchers and delvers, and created
villages and even towns in a wilderness where formerly the moose
wandered in the great hardwood swamps and the deer were often chased
by ravening packs of baying wolves.
His attention had reverted to the great sharp-muzzled dog that had
been crouching at his feet, and he bent down and began to pull out
small porcupine quills that had become fastened in the animal's nose
and lips.
"Maybe some day you'll learn enough to let those varmints alone,
Maigan, old boy," he said, having become accustomed to long
conversations with his companion. "I expect you're pretty nearly as
silly as a man. Experience teaches you mighty little. Dogs and men
have been stung since the beginning of the world, I expect, and keep
on making the same old mistakes. Hold hard, old fellow! I know it
hurts like the deuce but these things have just got to come out."
Maigan is the name of the wolf, in some of the Indian dialects, and
Hugo's friend seemed but little removed from a wolfish ancestry. He
evidently did his best to bear the punishment bravely, for he never
whimpered. At times, however, he sought hard to pull his muzzle away.
Finally, to his great relief, the last serrated quill was pulled out
and he jumped up, placing his paws on the man's shoulders, perhaps to
show he held no grudge. After his master had petted him, an excitable
red squirrel required his immediate attention and, as usual, led him
to a fruitless chase. He returned soon, scratching at the boards, and
his master let him in and closed the door. A moment later the animal's
sharp ears pricked up; the wiry hair on his back rose and he uttered a
low growl.
"Keep still, Maigan!" ordered his master. "Wonder who's coming? Maybe
one of Papineau's young ones."
The fire was getting low and he put a couple of sticks of yellow birch
in the stove. A few seconds later he heard a shout that came from
behind the saplings which, in some places, concealed the old tote-road
from his view. No one but Big Stefan could bellow out so powerfully,
to be sure. He opened the door and Maigan leaped out. In more
leisurely fashion he followed and stopped, in astonishment, as he
caught sight of the dog-team flying back towards Carcajou.
"That's a queer start!" he commented. "First time I ever knew him not
to stop for a cup of tea and a talk."
He thought he saw something like a black box through the branches and
went up. It must be something Stefan had left for him. He walked up
the path in leisurely fashion. There was evidently no hurry. He was
feeling a little disappointment, for he had become fond of Stefan
during his long prospecting trip and would have been glad of a chat to
the invariable accompaniment of the hospitable tea-kettle. He had just
made some pretty good biscuits, too. It was a pity the Swede wouldn't
share them with him. He reached the black box which, to his surprise,
turned out to be a small corded trunk lying on the hard dry snow, with
a cheap leather bag on top of it. He looked about him in wonder and
stopped, suddenly, staring in astonishment at the form of a woman,
shapeless in great ill-fitting garments too big for her. She was
leaning back against the great bare trunk of the old blasted pine and
the dog was skulking around her, curiously. Then he hurried towards
her, calling out a word of warning to Maigan, who seemed to realize
that this was no enemy. And as he came the woman, deathly pale, seemed
to look upon him as if he had been some terrifying ghost. She put out
her hands, just a little, as if seeking to protect herself from him.
"Are--are you Hugo Ennis?" she faltered.
"That's my name," he said. "Every one knows me around here. What--what
can I do for you?"
"My--my name is Madge Nelson," she Stammered. "I--I'm Madge Nelson
from--from New York."
"How do you do, Miss Nelson?" he said, quietly, touching his fur cap.
"You--I'm afraid you've had a mighty cold ride. What's happened to
Stefan to make him go back? Lost something on the road, has he?"
"I--I'm afraid I'm the only lost thing around here," she said, seeking
to hold back the tears that were beginning to well up in her eyes.
"Oh! I think--I think I'm becoming mad!" she suddenly cried out,
bitterly. "Is--is that your--your house, the--the residence you spoke
of?"
"The--the residence!" he repeated. "And I spoke of it, did I? Well, I
suppose that anything with a roof on it is a residence, if you come to
that. Yes, that's it, the little shack among the birches, and you'd
better come in till Stefan gets back, for it's mighty cold here
and--and if you're from New York you're not used to this sort of
thing. It's the best I can offer you, but I really never thought it
worth talking about. It's the slight improvement on a dog-kennel that
we folks have to be contented with, in these parts. Come right in; you
look half frozen."
"And--and that is the sort of place you've brought me to?" she cried,
her eyes now flashing at him in anger.
"Well, it seems to me that it's Stefan that brought you," he replied,
rather abashed.
"That--that's only a mean quibble," she retorted, hotly. "And--and
where's the town--or the village--and the other people, the friends
who were to greet me?"
The young man was beginning to feel rather provoked at her questions.
"The nearest settlers are a short mile away,--the Papineaus, very
decent French Canadians. Tom Carew's shack you must have passed on
your way here. The only village, of course, is Carcajou, and that's
twelve long miles away. But Mrs. Papineau is a real good old soul, if
that's where you expect to stop. A dozen kids about the place but
they're jolly little beggars. Her husband's trapping now, I believe,
but of course I'll take you up there."
At this she seemed to feel somewhat relieved. It was evident that she
was in no great peril. Yet she looked again at his shack, with her
lower lip in the bite of her teeth.
"You--you didn't really believe I'd come," she said, her mouth
quivering. "You--you were just making fun of me, I see, with--with
that residence and--and the ladies who were ready to welcome me. Where
are they?"
Ennis was scratching his head, or the cap over it, as he stared again
at her. He realized that some amazing, terrible mistake must have been
made, as he thought--or that this girl must be the victim of some
dreadful misunderstanding, if not of a foul plot. He began to pity
her. She looked so weak, so helpless, in spite of the anger she had
shown.
"There--there are no ladies," he said, lamely, "except Mrs. Papineau
and Mrs. Carew. They're first-rate women, both of 'em. And of course
Mrs. Papineau is your only resource till to-morrow, unless Stefan is
coming back for you."
"He isn't," she declared. "I said nothing about going back."
"That's awkward," he admitted. "You'll tell me all about this thing
later on, won't you, because I might be able to help you out. But
you'll be all right for a while, anyway. I'll take you there."
"Please start at once," she cried, desperately. "I--I can't stay here
for another instant."
"I can be ready in a very few minutes," he told her, quietly. "But
won't you please come over to the shack. I'm sure you're beginning to
feel the cold. You--you're shivering and--and I'm afraid you look
rather ill."
She had insisted on Stefan's taking back some of the things she had
borrowed from his wife, and had been standing there in rather
inadequate clothing. Ennis pulled off his heavy mackinaw jacket.
"You must put this on at once," he told her, gently enough, "and come
right over there with me."
Madge shrank from him, as if she feared to be touched by him, and yet
there was something in the frank way in which he addressed her,
perhaps also in the clear and unembarrassed look of his eyes, that was
gradually allaying her fears and the fierce repulsion of the first few
moments. Finally, chilled as she was to the very marrow of her bones,
she consented to accept his offer and submitted to his helping her on
with the coat.
"There's a good fire in the shack just now," he told her. "It's
absolutely necessary for you to get thoroughly warmed up before you
start off again. A cup of hot tea would do you a lot of good, too,
after that long ride on Stefan's toboggan. It's no joke of an
undertaking for a--a young lady who isn't used to such things."
Madge was still hesitating. The suffering look that had come into her
eyes moved the young man to greater pity for her.
"I--I give you my word you have absolutely nothing to fear," he
assured her, whereupon she followed him meekly, feeling very faint
now. She half feared that she might have to clutch at his sleeve, if
her footsteps failed her, for she felt that at any moment she might
stagger and fall. She gasped again as she looked at the shack they
were nearing, but, as she beheld the scenery of the great pool,
something in it that was very grand and beautiful appealed to her for
an instant. Yet she felt crushed by it, as if she had been some
infinitesimal insect beside that stupendous crashing of waters, before
the great ledges whose tops were hirsute with gnarled firs and twisted
jack-pines. She stopped for a moment, perhaps owing to her weakness,
or possibly because of awe at the majesty of the scene.
"I just love it," said the man. "It grows more utterly splendid every
time one looks at it. See that mass of rubbish on the top of that
great hemlock. It is the nest of a pair of ospreys. They come every
year, I've been told. Last summer I saw them circling high up in the
heavens, at times, and they would utter shrill cries as if they had
been the guardians of the falls and warned me off. But we had better
hurry in, Miss--Miss Nelson."
For an instant she had listened, wondering. This man did not speak
like a common toiler of city or country. His manner, somewhat distant,
in no way reminded her of the coarse familiarity she had often been
subjected to in shop and factory. But a moment later such thoughts
passed off and she followed him, resentfully, feeling that she was to
some extent forced to submit to his will. As Ennis pulled the door
open and held it for her to walk in, he looked at her keenly. He had
suddenly remembered hearing that exposure to intense cold had
sometimes actually disturbed the brains of people; that it had brought
on some form of insanity. He wondered whether, perhaps, this had been
the case with her? It was with greater concern and sympathy that he
felt he must treat her. The vagaries of her language, the reproaches
she seemed to think he deserved, were doubtless things she was not
responsible for. And then she looked so weary, so overcome, so ready
to collapse with faintness!
Madge entered the shack. It had been swept, neatly enough, and
everything was arranged in orderly fashion, except some loose things
piled up in one corner, out of the way. The little stove was glowing,
and the draft was purring softly. The girl pulled off her mitts and
held her reddened hands to it while Hugo brought her one of his rough
chairs. Then, without a word, he placed a kettle on the fire, after
which he brought out a white enameled cup and a small pan containing
some of his biscuits. After cogitating for a moment he also placed on
the table a tin of sardines.
Madge had dropped upon the chair, and began to feel more unutterably
weary than ever. The heat, close to the stove, became too great for
her and she moved her chair to the table, a couple of feet away, and
placed her arms upon it. Her head fell forward on them, and when, a
few moments later, Hugo spoke to her and she lifted up her face he was
dismayed as he saw the tears that were running down her cheeks. The
man could only bite his lips. What consolation or comfort could he
proffer? It was perhaps better to appear to take no notice of her
distress. But the weeping of genuine suffering and unhappiness is a
hard thing for a youth to see. The impulse had come to him to cry out
for information, to beg her to explain, to question her, to get at the
bottom of all this mystery. He was held from this by the renewed
thought that her mind was probably affected. He might further irritate
her or cause her still deeper chagrin. Even if he erred in this idea
the moment was probably ill-chosen. It would be better for her to tell
her tale before others also. He would wait until after he had taken
her over to Papineau's. She looked so harmless and weak that the idea
that she might prove dangerous never entered his head.
The kettle began to sing and a moment later the water was boiling
hard.
"I can't offer you much of a meal, Miss Nelson," he said, seeking to
make his voice as pleasant as possible. "You've probably never tried
sour-dough biscuits. Mrs. Papineau's are better, but you may be able
to manage one or two of these. That good woman's a mighty good cook,
as cooking goes in these parts. Here's a can of condensed milk; won't
you help yourself? You must really try to eat something. Do you think
you could try a little cold corned beef? I have some canned stuff
that's not half bad. Or it would take but a moment to broil you a
partridge I got yesterday. But I'll open these sardines first."
He went to work with a large jack-knife, but she thanked him, briefly,
in a low voice, and refused to accept anything but the tea and a bit
of the biscuit. She wondered why he didn't also sit down to eat. It
bothered her to see him hovering over her like some sort of waiter. He
was probably staring at her, when her head was turned, and enjoying
his dastardly jest. When she thought of those letters she had received
and of all they contained of lies, of unimaginable falsehoods, the man
began again to repel her like some venomous reptile. She could have
shrieked out as he came near. What an actor he was! What control he
held over voice and face as he pretended to know nothing about her.
His effort had been evident, from the very first instant they had met,
to disclaim the slightest knowledge of her or of the reasons for her
coming! She felt utterly bewildered. He answered to that name of Hugo
Ennis and had admitted that this was Roaring River, as Stefan had also
told her. Moreover, the big Swede knew perfectly well that she was
coming and expected. In word, in action, in every move of his, this
man was lying, stupidly, coarsely, with features indifferent or
pretending concern. It was unbearable.
She turned and looked at him again, swiftly but haggardly. She would
never have conceived the possibility of a man dissembling so, in
letters first and lying again in every move and every tone of his
voice. How could he keep it so tranquil and unmoved? Yet when he came
near her again, insisting on filling her cup once more, she seemed for
an instant to forget the rough clothes, the mean little shack, the
strange conspiracy of which she was the victim and which had aroused
her passionate protests. Over the first mouthfuls of hot tea she had
nearly choked, but she had found the warm brew welcome and its odor
grateful and pleasant. It mingled in some way with the scent of the
balsam boughs with which the bunk was covered and over which the
blankets reposed. She had experienced something like this feeling in
the hospital, the first time she had been an inmate of it. It was as
if again she had been very ill and awakened in an unfamiliar and
bewildering place. The great weakness she experienced was something
like that which she had felt in the great ward, where the rows of beds
stretched before her and at either side. Some were screened, she
remembered, and held the poor creatures for whom there was no longer
any hope. It was as if now a turn of her head could have revealed a
white-capped nurse moving silently, deftly bringing comfort. Her hands
had become quite warm again; she passed one of them over her brow as
if this motion might have dispelled some strange vision.
The big dog, Maigan, came to her and laid his sharp head and pointed
cold muzzle on her lap, and she stroked it, mechanically. This, at any
rate, was something genuine and friendly that had come to her. Again
and again she passed her hand over the rough neck and head. At this,
however, something within her broke again and her head fell once more
on her arms as she sobbed,--sobbed as if her heart would break.
"I--I'm afraid you must have gone through a good deal of--of
unhappiness," faltered the man, anxiously. "It--it's really too bad
and I'd give anything if I could...."
But the girl lifted up her hand, as if to check his words. What right
had a man who was guilty of such conduct to begin proffering a
repentance that was unavailing, nay, contemptible? Did he think that a
few halting words could atone for his cruelty, could dispel the evil
he had wrought?
At this he kept silent again, during long minutes, appalled as men
always are at the first sight of a woman's tears. He felt utterly
helpless to console or advise, and was becoming more and more
bewildered at this interruption of his lonely and quiet life. Since
she didn't want him to speak he would hold his tongue. If she hadn't
looked so dreadfully unhappy he would have deemed her an infernal
nuisance and hurried her departure. But in this case how could a
fellow be brutal to a poor thing that wailed like a child, that seemed
weaker than one and more in need of gentle care?
Soon she rose from the table, determinedly, with some of her energy
renewed by the food and hot drink.
"If you please, let us go now," she told him, firmly.
"I'm entirely at your service," he answered. "I think you had better
let me lend you a cap. That thing you have on your head can hardly
keep your ears from freezing. I have a new one that's never been worn.
Wait a moment."
His search was soon rewarded. She had kept on but her inefficient
little New York hat with its faded buds and wrinkled leaves and now
tried to remove it. Her hands trembled, however, and the strain of
travel had been hard. All at once, as she pulled away, her coiled hair
escaped all restraint of pins and fell down upon her shoulders, in a
great waving chestnut mass. At this Hugo opened the door and ran out,
returning a couple of minutes later with the bag that had been left on
the trunk.
"I--I expect you need some of your things," he ventured.
She looked at him with some gratitude. Most men wouldn't have thought
of it. Nodding her thanks she opened the thing and was compelled to
pull out various articles before she could get at her comb and brush.
Her movements were still very nervous. It was embarrassing to be there
before that man with one's hair all undone and awry. Something fell
from her hand, striking the edge of the table and toppling to the
floor. There was a deafening explosion and the shack was full of the
dense smoke of black powder. When Madge recovered from her terror the
young man, looking very pale, had bent down and picked up the fallen
weapon. For a moment she thought there was a strange look in his
eyes.
"I--I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed.
"If--if you were to hit a man with that thing he'd get real mad," he
said, repeating an age-worn joke. "At any rate I'm glad you were not
hurt. Rather unexpected, wasn't it? I really think you'd better let me
take the other shells out. It's a nasty little cheap weapon and, I
should judge, quite an unsafe bit of hardware for a lady to handle.
Whoever gave you that thing ought to be spanked. But--but, then, of
course you didn't know it was loaded."
"I--I did know it was loaded!" cried Madge. "I--I had the man load it
for me! I--I thought it might protect me from insult, perhaps,
or--or let me take matters in my own hands, if need be. I--I didn't
know what sort of place I would be coming to or--or what sort of man
would--would receive me! I--I felt safer with it!"
Maigan was still ferreting out corners of the room, having leaped up
at the shot as if the idea had come to him that some rat or chipmunk
must lie dead somewhere. There nearly always was something to pick up
when his master fired.
"Keep still, boy!" ordered the latter. "I think we'd better count that
as a miss. I'll wait outside until you've fixed yourself up, Miss
Nelson, and are ready to go. I'll have to hitch up Maigan first. As
soon as you come out I'll wrap you in my blankets; you'll be quite
comfortable. We haven't very far to go, anyway."
"Thank you--it--it won't take me a minute," she answered, without
looking at him.
She had discovered in a corner of the shack a bit of looking-glass he
used to shave by, and stood before it, never noticing that he made a
rather long job of drawing on his heavy fur coat. He went out with his
dog and got the sled ready, with a wry look upon his face. Then, as
there was nothing more to do, he sat down upon the rough bench that
stood near the door. He winced and made a grimace as his hand went up
to his shoulder.
"The little fool," he told himself. "She seems to have been loaded for
bear. Glad it was a thirty-two instead of a forty-five Colt. I didn't
think it was anything, just a bad scratch, after the first sting of
it, but it feels like fire and brimstone now. It's an infernal
nuisance. Good Lord! Suppose she'd plugged herself instead of me. That
would have been a fix for fair!"
This idea evidently horrified him. He had a vision of blood and tears
and screams, of having to rush off to Carcajou to telegraph for the
nearest doctor. Perhaps people would even have suspected him. He saw
Madge with her big dark-rimmed eyes and that perfectly wonderful hair,
lying dead or dying on the floor of his shack. It was utterly
gruesome, unspeakable, and a strong shiver passed over him.
"But I wonder who the deuce she was going to shoot with that thing?"
he finally asked himself. "Oh, she must be crazy, the poor little
thing! It's really too bad!"
[Illustration: "I'm glad you were not hurt. Rather unexpected, wasn't it"]
He then thought of what a fool he had been to give her back that
gimcrack pistol. She probably had more shells. He must contrive to get
them away from her. There was no saying what an insane person might
do.
"I wish Stefan would turn up soon," he cogitated. "I'd give a lot to
find out what he knows about her. It was mighty funny his never
stopping here for a minute."