A LETTER FROM MAJOR EGERTON TO HIS FRIEND ARTHUR DONCOURT, ESQ.
MY DEAR DONCOURT:
You ask me to tell you some of the circumstances underlying the Imbrie
murder case of which you have read the account in the annual report of
the R.N.W.M.P. just published. You are right in supposing that a strange
and moving tale is hidden behind the cold and formal phraseology of the
report.
The first Imbrie was the Reverend Ernest, who went as a missionary to
the Sikannis Indians away back in '79. Up to that time these Indians
were absolutely uncivilized, and bore a reputation for savage cruelty. I
suppose that was what stimulated the good man's zeal. He left a saintly
tradition behind him. The Sikannis live away up the corner of British
Columbia, on the head-waters of the Stanley River, one of the main
branches of the Spirit River. The Spirit River, as you may know, rises
west of the Rocky Mountains and breaks through. There is not a more
remote spot this side the Arctic Circle, nor one more difficult of
access.
The missionary brought with him his son, John Imbrie, a boy just
approaching manhood. Very likely the danger of bringing up a boy
absolutely cut off from the women of his race never occurred to the
father. The inevitable happened. The boy fell in love with a handsome
half-breed girl, the daughter of a wandering prospector and a Sikanni
squaw, and married her out of hand. The heartbroken father was himself
compelled to perform the ceremony. This was in 1886.
The Imbries were so far cut off from their kind that in time they were
forgotten. The missionary supported himself by farming in a small way
and trading his surplus products with the Indians. John turned out to be
a good farmer and they prospered. Their farm was the last outpost of
agriculture in that direction. From the time he went in with his father
John did not see the outside world again until 1889, when he took his
wife and babies out, with a vain hope, I think, of trying to educate the
woman. Most of these marriages have tragic results, and this was no
exception. During all the years in her husband's house this woman
resisted every civilizing influence, except that she learned to deck
herself out like a white woman.
She bore her husband twin sons, who were christened Ernest and William.
They bore a strong resemblance to each other, but as they began to
develop it appeared, as is so often the case in these mixed families,
that Ernest had a white man's nature, and William a red man's. When the
time came they were sent out to Winnipeg to school, but William, true to
the savage nature, sickened in civilised surroundings, and had to be
sent home. On the other hand, Ernest proved to be a sufficiently apt
scholar, and went on through school and college. During the whole period
between his thirteenth and his twenty-fourth year he was only home two
or three times. William remained at home and grew up in ignorance. John
Imbrie, the father, I gather, was a worthy man, but somewhat weak in his
family relations.
Ernest went on to a medical college with the idea of practising among
the Sikannis, who had no doctor. During his second year his father died,
long before he could reach him, of course. He remained outside until he
got his diploma. Meanwhile his mother and brother quickly relapsed into
a state of savagery. They "pitched around" with the Indians, and the
farm which had been so painstakingly hewn out of the wilderness by the
two preceding generations grew up in weeds.
Ernest had a painful homecoming, I expect. However, he patiently set to
work to restore his father's work. He managed to persuade his mother and
brother to return and live in white man's fashion, but they made his
life a hell for him, according to all accounts. They were insanely
jealous of his superior attainments. Neither did the Sikannis welcome
Doctor Ernest's ministrations. Since the death of the missionary they
had been gradually slipping back into their ignorant ways, and now they
instinctively took the part of the mother against the educated son. One
can imagine what a dreary life the young medico lived among these
savages. He has been described to me as a charming fellow, modest,
kindly and plucky. And, by the way, I have not mentioned that these
young fellows were uncommonly good-looking. William, or, as the Indians
say, Hooliam, was one of the handsomest natives I ever saw.
Meanwhile that remote country was being talked about outside on account
of the gold deposits along the upper reaches of the Stanley--largely
mythically I believe. However that may be, prospectors began to straggle
in, and in the summer of the year following Ernest's return from
college, the government sent in a surveyor, one Frank Starling, to
survey the claims, and adjust disputes. Starling brought with him his
daughter Clare, a young lady of adventurous disposition.
Both the Imbrie boys fell in love with her according to their natures,
thus further complicating the situation. Hooliam, the ignorant savage,
could not aspire to her hand, of course, but the young doctor courted
her, and she looked kindly on him. I do not consider that she was ever
in love with him, though apart from the dark strain he was worthy of it
as men go, a manly fellow!--but it was the hardness of his lot that
touched her heart. Like many a good woman before her, she was carried
away by compassion for the dogged youth struggling against such hopeless
odds.
The father completed his work and took her out, and Ernest Imbrie
followed them. They were married in the early spring at Fort Edward on
the Campbell River, where the Starlings wintered. Ernest carried his
bride back by canoe, hundreds of miles through the wilderness.
Their happiness, if indeed they were ever happy, was of brief duration.
Whichever way you look at it, the situation was impossible. Ernest's
mother, the breed woman, acted like a fiend incarnate, I have been told,
and I can quite believe it, having witnessed some of her subsequent
performances. Then there was the brother-in-law always hanging around
the house, nursing his evil passion for his brother's wife. And in the
background the ignorant, unfriendly Indians.
The catastrophe was precipitated by a gross insult offered to the girl
by her husband's brother. He broke into her room one night impudently
assuming to masquerade as her husband. Her husband saved her from him,
but in the shock to her nerves she experienced a revulsion against the
lot of them--and small wonder!
Her husband of his own free will took her back to her father. That's one
of the finest things in the story, for there's no question but that he
loved her desperately. The loss of her broke his spirit, which had
endured so much. He never went back home. He felt, poor fellow, as if he
were cast out alike by reds and whites, and his instinct was to find a
place where he could bury himself far from all humankind.
He was next heard of at Miwasa landing a thousand miles away, across
the mountains. Here he got employment with a york boat crew and
travelled with them down-stream some hundreds of miles north to Great
Buffalo Lake. Here he obtained a canoe from the Indians, and, with a
small store of grub, set off on his own. He made his way up the Swan
River, an unexplored stream emptying into Great Buffalo Lake, as far as
the Great Falls, and there he built himself a shack.
He could hardly have found a spot better suited to his purpose. No white
man so far as known had ever visited those falls, and even the Indians
avoid the neighbourhood for superstitious reasons. But even here he
could not quite cut himself off from his kind. An epidemic of measles
broke out among the Kakisa Indians up the river from him, and out of
pure humanity he went among them and cured them. These Indians were
grateful, strange to say; they almost deified the white man who had
appeared so strangely in their country.
Meanwhile the wrong she had done him began to prey on his wife's mind.
She could not rest under the thought that she had wrecked his
usefulness. Ernest Imbrie had, with the idea of keeping his mind from
rusting out in solitude, ordered certain papers and books sent to him at
Fort Enterprise. His wife learned of this address through his medical
college, and in the spring of the year following her marriage, that is
to say the spring of the year just past, she set off in search of him
without saying anything to anybody of her intention.
She and her father were still at Fort Edward--have I said that the girl
had no mother?--and Hooliam Imbrie had been there, too, during the
winter, not daring to approach the girl precisely, but just hanging
around the neighbourhood. One can't help feeling for the poor wretch,
bad as he was, he was hard-hit, too. He bribed a native servant to show
him the letter giving his brother's address, and when the girl set off,
he instantly guessed her errand, and determined to prevent their
meeting.
Now it is only a short distance from Fort Edward over the height of land
to the source of the main southerly branch of the Spirit, and Hooliam
was therefore able to proceed direct to Fort Enterprise by canoe (a
journey of more than a thousand miles), pausing only to go up the
Stanley to pick up his mother, who was ripe for such an adventure. At
Carcajou Point, when they had almost reached Enterprise, they heard the
legend of the White Medicine Man off on the unknown Swan River, and they
decided to avoid Enterprise and hit straight across the prairie.
Meanwhile the girl was obliged to make a long detour south to the
railway, then across the mountains and north again by all sorts of
conveyances, with many delays. So Hooliam and his mother arrived a few
weeks before her, but they in turn were delayed at Swan Lake by the
woman's illness.
You have read a transcript of the statements of this precious pair at
the hearing before me. Read it again, and observe the ingenious web of
truth and falsehood. For instance, it was true the woman fell sick at
Swan Lake, and Hooliam after waiting awhile for her, finally went down
the river without her--only a few days in advance of Sergeant Stonor and
Ernest Imbrie's wife. As soon as Hooliam reached Swan Lake he began to
meet Indians who had seen his brother, and thereafter he was always
hailed among them as the White Medicine Man. The Indians never troubled
to explain to themselves how he had got to Swan Lake, because they
ascribed magical powers to him anyway.
What happened between the brothers when they met will never be known for
certain. Hooliam swears that he did not intend to kill Ernest, but that
the deed was done in self-defence during a quarrel. However that may
be, Ernest was shot through the heart with a bullet from Hooliam's gun,
and his body cast in the river.
You have read the rest of the story; how Stonor arrived with Ernest's
wife, and how, at the shock of beholding her husband's body, the poor
girl lost her memory. How Hooliam sought to escape up-stream, and
Stonor's confusion when he was told by an Indian that the White Medicine
Man was still alive. How Hooliam kidnapped the girl from Stonor, and
tried to win back to the mountains and his own country by way of the
unexplored river.
We established the fact that Hooliam did not tell his mother what had
happened at the Great Falls. She thought that Hooliam had found Ernest
gone still further north. You can see at the hearing how when Stonor
first told of the murder, in her horror at the discovery that one
brother had killed the other the truth finally came out. Though she had
always taken Hooliam's part she could not altogether deny her feeling
for the other son.
Well, that's about all. I consider that they got off easily; Hooliam
with twenty years, and the woman with half that sentence; but in the
man's case it was impossible to prove that the murder was a deliberate
one, and though the woman certainly did her best to put Stonor out of
the way, as it happened he escaped.
You ask about the Indian woman, Mary Moosa, who served Stonor and Mrs.
Imbrie so faithfully. We overtook her at Swan Lake on the way out. So
she did not starve to death on the river, but recovered from her wound.
When we got out as far as Caribou Lake we met Mrs. Imbrie's distracted
father coming in search of her. The meeting between them was very
affecting. I am happy to say that the young lady has since recovered
her memory entirely, and at the last account was very well.
You are curious to know what kind of fellow Stonor is. I can only
answer, an ornament to the service. Simple, manly and dependable as a
trooper ought to be. With a splendid strong body and a good wit. Out of
such as he the glorious tradition of our force was built. They are
becoming more difficult to get, I am sorry to say. I had long had my eye
on him, and this affair settled it. I have recommended him for a
commission. He is a man of good birth and education. Moreover I saw that
if we didn't commission him we'd lose him; for he wants to get married.
As a result of the terrible trials they faced together he and Ernest
Imbrie's widow have conceived a deep affection for each other. Enlisted
men are not allowed to marry. They make a fine pair, Doncourt. It makes
an old fellow sort of happy and weepy to see them together.
Stonor is now at the Officers' School at General Headquarters, and if he
passes his examinations will be commissioned in the summer.
We'll talk further about this interesting case when good fortune brings
us together again. In the meantime, my dear Doncourt,
Yours faithfully,
FRANK EGERTON.
EPILOGUE
In a bare and spotless company-room in headquarters in Regina eight
uneasy troopers in fatigue uniform were waiting. Down one side of the
room a row of tall windows looked out on the brown parade-ground, and
beyond the buildings on the other side they could see a long
Transcontinental train slowly gathering way up the westward grade.
"Hey, boys!" cried one. "How'd you like to be aboard her with your
shoulder-straps and spurs?"
They cast unfriendly glances at the speaker and snorted.
"Don't try to be an ass, Carter," said one. "It doesn't require the
effort."
They evinced their nervousness in characteristic ways. Several were
polishing bits of brass already dazzling; one sat voraciously chewing
gum and staring into vacancy; one paced up and down like a caged animal;
another tried to pick a quarrel with his mates, and the eighth, Sergeant
Stonor--the hero of Swan River they called him when they wished to annoy
him--sat in a corner writing a letter.
To the eight entered a hardened sergeant-major, purpled-jowled and
soldierly. All eight pairs of eyes sprang to his face in a kind of agony
of suspense. He twirled his moustache and a wicked, dancing light
appeared in his little blue eyes.
"You're a nice set of duffers!" he rasped. "Blockheads all eight of you.
Why they ever sent you down beats me. I've seen some rum lots, but never
your equal. Flunked, every man of you!"
The eight pairs of eyes were cast down. Nobody said anything. Each was
thinking: "So that dream is over. I mustn't let anything on before the
others": those who were polishing brass gave an extra twirl to the
chamois.
Stonor, suddenly suspicious, narrowly searched the sergeant-major's
face. "Fellows, he's joshing!" he cried. "It isn't possible that every
one of us has flunked! It isn't reasonable!"
The sergeant-major roared with laughter. "Wonderful penetration,
Sherlock! When I saw your faces I couldn't help it. You were asking for
it. All passed! That's straight. Congrats!" He passed on down the
corridor.
There was a silence in the company-room. They looked shyly at each other
to see how the news was being taken. Each felt a sudden warmth of heart
towards all his mates. All of them displayed an elaborate and perfectly
transparent assumption of indifference. Stonor added a postscript to his
letter, and sedately folded it.
Then speech came, at first softly. "Damn old Huggins, anyway. Almost
gave me heart-failure!... Wot t'hell, Bill! Poor old Hugs, it was his
last chance. Sure, we'll have him where we want him now.... Think of
being able to call Hugs down!... Lordy, Lordy, am I awake!"
Suddenly the unnatural tension broke, and a long-limbed trooper jumped
to his feet with his arms in the air. "Boys! Are you dumb! We've passed!
We've got the straps! All together now, Mumbo-Jumbo!"
They marched around the room with their hands on each other's shoulders,
singing:
"For I've got rings on my fingers
And bells on my toes;
Elephants to ride upon----"
In a little house in Vancouver, embowered in such greenery as only the
mild, moist airs of Puget Sound can produce, a young woman sat in her
drawing-room regarding a letter she had just read with a highly
dissatisfied air. It was a pretty little room, not rich nor fussy, but
expressing the charm of an individual woman no less than the clothes she
wore.
To the mistress entered the maid, to wit, a matronly Indian woman with
an intelligent face. She looked from her mistress' face to the letter,
and back to her mistress again. When the latter made no offer to speak
she said, for she was a privileged person:
"You hear from Stonor?"
Clare nodded.
"He not pass his 'xamination, I guess?"
"Certainly he has passed!" said Clare sharply. "If anybody can pass
their examinations he can."
"Why you look so sorry then?"
"Oh--nothing. I didn't expect him to write it. A five-word postscript at
the end of a matter-of-fact letter."
"Maybe he couldn't get leave."
"He said he'd get leave if he passed."
"Maybe he comin' anyhow."
"He never says a word about coming."
"You ask him to come?"
"Of course not!"
"Don't you want him come?"
"I don't know whether I do or not."
Mary looked perplexed.
Clare burst out, "I can't ask him. He'd feel obliged to come. A man--man
like that anyway, would feel after what we've been through together that
I had a claim on him. Well, I don't want him to come out of a sense of
duty. Don't you understand?"
Mary shook her head. "If I want something I ask for it."
"It's not so simple as all that!"
"Maybe he think he not wanted here."
"A man's supposed to take that chance."
"Awful long way to come on a chance," said Mary. "Maybe I write to him."
Clare jumped up. "Don't you dare!" she cried. "If I thought for a
moment--if I thought he had been _brought_, I should be perfectly
hateful to him. I couldn't help myself--Is that a motor at the gate?"
"Yes, Miss, a taxi-cab."
"Stopping here?"
"Yes, Miss,"--with absolute calm: "Stonor is gettin' out."
"What!--Oh, Mary!--It can't be!--It is!"
A bell rang.
"Oh, Mary! What shall I do? Don't go to the door! Let him wait a minute.
Let me think what I must do. Let me get upstairs!"
* * * * *
Stonor got up and sat down, and got up again. He walked to the window
and back to the door. He listened for sounds in the house, and then went
back to his chair again. He heard a sound overhead and sprang to the
door once more. He saw her on the stairs, and retreated back into the
room. She came down with maddening deliberation, step by step. She did
not look through the door, but paused a second to straighten a picture
that hung askew on the wall. Stonor's heart was beating like a
trip-hammer.
She came into the room smiling in friendly fashion with a little gush of
speech--but her eyes did not quite meet his.
"Well, Martin! Congratulations! I just got your letter this morning. I
didn't expect you to follow so soon. So it's Inspector Stonor now, eh?
Very becoming uniform, sir! Was the examination difficult? You must tell
me all about it. I suppose you are just off the train. What kind of a
trip did you have? Sit down."
He was a little flabbergasted by her easy flow of speech. "I don't want
to sit down," he muttered huskily. He was staring at her from a white
face.
She sat; glanced out of the window, glanced here and there about the
room, and rattled on: "Haven't we got a jolly little place here? But I
expect we'll be ordered on directly. Mary and I were talking about you
the moment you rang the bell. Mary is so good to me, but her heart is
already turning to Fort Enterprise and her children, I'm afraid."
He found his tongue at last. "Clare, don't!" he cried brokenly. "I
didn't come eight hundred miles to hear you make parlour conversation.
What's the matter? What have I done? If you've changed towards me tell
me so plainly, and let me get out. I can't stand this!"
Panic seized her. "I must see about lunch. Excuse me just a moment," she
said, making for the door.
He caught her as she tried to pass. "Damn lunch! Look me in the eye,
woman!"
She relaxed. Her eyes crept imploringly up to his. "Bear!" she
whispered. "You might at least have given me a moment's respite!--Oh, I
love you! I love you! I love you!"
THE END
[Transcriber's Note: The following changes have been made from the
original text:
Pg. 27: heart-strings --> heartstrings
(... plucked at his heartstrings with a ...)
Pg. 44: strain ... --> strain....
(I've been under a strain....)
Pg. 54: bambye --> bam-bye
(... but bam-bye he rise up again ...)
Pg. 85: storeroom --> store-room
(... a work-room and store-room.)
Pg. 85: Snow-shoes --> Snowshoes
(Snowshoes, roughly-fashioned fur garments ...)
Pg. 105: backwater --> back-water
(... out of the back-water alongshore ...)
Pg. 105: along-shore --> alongshore
(... out of the back-water alongshore ...)
Pg. 133: redskin --> red-skin
(Some red-skin mumbo-jumbo.)
Pg. 172: horseflesh --> horse-flesh
(... horse-flesh, fresh into the bargain.)
Pg. 174: singlehanded --> single-handed
(... brave him single-handed ...)
Pg. 219: get's --> gets
(And if she gets a knife ...)
Pg. 256: headwaters --> head-waters
(... on the head-waters of the Stanley River ...)
Pg. 260: downstream --> down-stream
(... travelled with them down-stream ...)
Pg. 267: hunk --> hung
(... picture that hung askew ...)]
End of Project Gutenberg's The Woman from Outside, by Hulbert Footner