THE DULL RED STAIN
The minutes passed slowly. The scene in the camp of the Stonies that he
had just witnessed drove all sleep from Cameron. He was firmly resolved
that at the first opportunity he would make his break for liberty; for
he was now fully aware that though not confessedly he was none the less
really a prisoner.
As he lay intently thinking, forming and discarding plans of escape, two
Indians, followed by Little Thunder, walked quietly within the circle of
the firelight and with a nod and a grunt towards Raven sat down by
the fire. Raven passed his tobacco bag, which, without a word, they
accepted; and, filling their pipes, they gravely began to smoke.
“White Cloud,” grunted Little Thunder, waving his hand to the first
Indian. “Big Chief. Him,” pointing to the second Indian, “White Cloud
brother.”
“My brothers had good hunting this year,” said Raven.
The Indians grunted for reply.
“Your packs are heavy?”
Another grunt made answer.
“We have much goods,” continued Raven. “But the time is short. Come and
see.”
Raven led them out into the dark towards the pack horse, Little Thunder
remaining by the fire. From the darkness Cameron could hear Raven's
voice in low tones and the Indians' guttural replies mingled with
unusual laughter.
When they returned the change in their appearance was plainly visible.
Their eyes were gleaming with an unnatural excitement, their grave
and dignified demeanour had given place to an eager, almost childish
excitement. Cameron did not need the whiff that came to him from their
breath to explain the cause of this sudden change. The signs were to him
only too familiar.
“My brothers will need to hurry,” said Raven. “We move when the moon is
high.”
“Good!” replied White Cloud. “Go, quick.” He waved his hand toward the
dark. “Come.” He brought it back again. “Heap quick.” Without further
word they vanished, silent as the shadows that swallowed them up.
“Now, then, Cameron, we have big business on foot. Up and give us a
hand. Little Thunder, take the bunch down the trail a couple of miles
and come back.”
Selecting one of the pack ponies, he tied it to a pine tree and the
others he hurried off with Little Thunder down the trail.
“Going to do some trading, are you?” enquired Cameron.
“Yes, if the price is right, though I'm not too keen,” replied Raven,
throwing himself down beside the fire.
“What are you after? Furs?”
“Yes, furs mostly. Anything they have to offer.”
“What do you give in exchange?”
Raven threw him a sharp glance, but Cameron's face was turned toward the
fire.
“Oh, various articles. Wearing apparel, tobacco, finery. Molasses too.
They are very fond of molasses.”
“Molasses?” echoed Cameron, with a touch of scorn. “It was not molasses
they had to-night. Why did you give them whiskey?” he asked boldly.
Raven started. His eyes narrowed to two piercing points.
“Why? That's my business, my friend. I keep a flask to treat my guests
occasionally. Have you any objection?”
“It is against the law, I understand, and mighty bad for the Indians.”
“Against the law?” echoed Raven in childlike surprise. “You don't tell
me!”
“So the Mounted Police declare,” said Cameron, turning his eyes upon
Raven's face.
“The Mounted Police!” exclaimed Raven, pouring forth a flood of oaths.
“That! for the Mounted Police!” he said, snapping his fingers.
“But,” replied Cameron, “I understood you very especially to object to
the operations of the whiskey runners?”
“Whiskey runners? Who's speaking of whiskey runners? I'm talking of
the approved method of treating our friends in this country, and if the
police should interfere between me and my friends they would be carrying
things a little too far. But all the same,” he continued, hastily
checking himself, “the police are all right. They put down a lot of
lawlessness in this country. But I may as well say to you here, Mr.
Cameron,” he continued, “that there are certain things it is best not to
see, or, having seen, to speedily forget.” As he spoke these words his
eyes narrowed again to two grey points that seemed to bore right through
to Cameron's brain.
“This man is a very devil,” thought Cameron to himself. “I was a fool
not to see it before.” But to the trader he said, “There are some things
I would rather not see and some things I cannot forget.”
Before another hour had passed the Stonies reappeared, this time on
ponies. The trader made no move to meet them. He sat quietly smoking by
the fire. Silently the Indians approached the fire and threw down a pack
of furs.
“Huh!” said White Cloud. “Good! Ver good!” He opened his pack and spread
out upon the rock with impressive deliberation its contents. And good
they were, even to Cameron's uncultured eye. Wolf skins and bear,
cinnamon and black, beaver, fox, and mink, as well as some magnificent
specimens of mountain goat and sheep. “Good! Good! Big--fine--heap
good!” White Cloud continued to exclaim as he displayed his collection.
Raven turned them over carelessly, feeling the furs, examining and
weighing the pelts. Then going to the pack horse he returned and spread
out upon the rock beside the furs the goods which he proposed to offer
in exchange. And a pitiful display it was, gaudy calicoes and flimsy
flannels, the brilliance of whose colour was only equalled by the
shoddiness of the material, cheap domestic blankets, half wool half
cotton, prepared especially for the Indian trade. These, with beads and
buttons, trinkets, whole strings of brass rings, rolls of tobacco, bags
of shot and powder, pot metal knives, and other articles, all bearing
the stamp of glittering fraud, constituted his stock for barter.
The Indians made strenuous efforts to maintain an air of dignified
indifference, but the glitter in their eyes betrayed their eagerness.
White Cloud picked up a goat skin, heavy with its deep silky fur and
with its rich splendour covered over the glittering mass of Raven's
cheap and tawdry stuff.
“Good trade,” said White Cloud. “Him,” pointing to the skin, “and,”
turning it back, “him,” laying his hand upon the goods beneath.
Raven smiled carelessly, pulled out a flask from his pocket, took a
drink and passed it to the others. Desperately struggling to suppress
his eagerness and to maintain his dignified bearing, White Cloud seized
the flask and, drinking long and deep, passed it to his brother.
“Have a drink, Cameron,” said Raven, as he received his flask again.
“No!” said Cameron shortly. “And I would suggest to your friends that
they complete the trade before they drink much more.”
“My friend here says this is no good,” said Raven to the Indians,
tapping the flask with his finger. “He says no more drink.”
White Cloud shot a keen enquiring glance at Cameron, but he made no
reply other than to stretch out his hand for Raven's flask again. Before
many minutes the efficacy of Raven's methods of barter began to be
apparent. The Indians lost their grave and dignified demeanour. They
became curious, eager, garrulous, and demonstrative. With childish glee
they began examining more closely Raven's supply of goods, trying on the
rings, draping themselves in the gaudy calicoes and flannels. At length
Raven rolled up his articles of barter and set them upon one side.
“How much?” he said.
White Cloud selected the goat skin, laid upon it some half dozen beaver
and mink, and a couple of foxes, and rolling them up in a pile laid them
beside Raven's bundle.
The trader smiled and shook his head. “No good. No good.” So saying he
took from his pack another flask and laid it upon his pile.
Instantly the Indian increased his pile by a bear skin, a grey wolf, and
a mountain goat. Then, without waiting for Raven's words, he reached for
the flask.
“No, not yet,” said Raven quietly, laying his hand down upon the flask.
The Indian with gleaming eyes threw on the pile some additional skins.
“Good!” said Raven, surrendering the flask. Swiftly the Indian caught it
up and, seizing the cork in his teeth, bit it off close to the neck
of the flask. Snatching his knife from his pocket with almost frantic
energy, he proceeded to dig out the imbedded cork.
“Here,” said Raven, taking the flask from him. “Let me have it.” From
his pocket he took a knife containing a corkscrew and with this he drew
the cork and handed the flask back to the Indian.
With shameless, bestial haste the Indian placed the bottle to his lips
and after a long pull passed it to his waiting brother.
At this point Raven rose as if to close the negotiations and took out
his own flask for a final drink, but found it empty.
“Aha!” he exclaimed, turning the empty flask upside down. At once the
Indian passed him his flask. Raven, however, waved him aside and, going
to his pack, drew out a tin oil can which would contain about a gallon.
From this with great deliberation he filled his flask.
“Huh!” exclaimed the Indian, pointing to the can. “How much?”
Raven shook his head. “No sell. For me,” he answered, tapping himself on
the breast.
“How much?” said the Indian fiercely.
Still Raven declined to sell.
Swiftly the Indian gathered up the remaining half of his pack of furs
and, throwing them savagely at Raven's feet, seized the can.
Still Raven refused to let it go.
At this point the soft padding of a loping pony was heard coming up the
trail and in a few minutes Little Thunder silently took his place in
the circle about the fire. Cameron's heart sank within him, for now it
seemed as if his chance of escape had slipped from him.
Raven spoke a few rapid words to Little Thunder, who entered into
conversation with the Stonies. At length White Cloud drew from his
coat a black fox skin. In spite of himself Raven uttered a slight
exclamation. It was indeed a superb pelt. With savage hate in every line
of his face and in every movement of his body, the Indian flung the skin
upon the pile of furs and without a “By your leave” seized the can and
passed it to his brother.
At this point Raven, with a sudden display of reckless generosity,
placed his own flask upon the Indian's pile of goods.
“Ask them if they want molasses,” said Raven to Little Thunder.
“No,” grunted the Indian contemptuously, preparing to depart.
“Ask them, Little Thunder.”
Immediately as Little Thunder began to speak the contemptuous attitude
of the Stonies gave place to one of keen interest and desire. After some
further talk Little Thunder went to the pack-pony, returned bearing a
small keg and set it on the rock beside Raven's pile of furs. Hastily
the Stonies consulted together, White Cloud apparently reluctant, the
brother recklessly eager to close the deal. Finally with a gesture White
Cloud put an end to the conversation, stepped out hastily into the
dark and returned leading his pony into the light. Cutting asunder the
lashings with his knife, he released a bundle of furs and threw it down
at Raven's feet.
“Same ting. Good!” he said.
But Raven would not look at the bundle and proceeded to pack up the
spoils of his barter. Earnestly the Stonies appealed to Little Thunder,
but in vain. Angrily they remonstrated, but still without result. At
length Little Thunder pointed to the pony and without hesitation White
Cloud placed the bridle rein in his hands.
Cameron could contain himself no longer. Suddenly rising from his place
he strode to the side of the Indians and cried, “Don't do it! Don't be
such fools! This no good,” he said, kicking the keg. “What would Mr.
Macdougall say? Come! I go with you. Take back these furs.”
He stepped forward to seize the second pack. Swiftly Little Thunder
leaped before him, knife in hand, and crouched to spring. The Stonies
had no doubt as to his meaning. Their hearts were filled with black
rage against the unscrupulous trader, but their insane thirst for the
“fire-water” swept from their minds every other consideration but that
of determination to gratify this mad lust. Unconsciously they ranged
themselves beside Cameron, their hands going to their belts. Quietly
Raven spoke a few rapid words to Little Thunder, who, slowly putting
up his knife, made a brief but vigourous harangue to the Stonies, the
result of which was seen in the doubtful glances which they cast upon
Cameron from time to time.
“Come on!” cried Cameron again, laying his hand upon the nearest Indian.
“Let's go to your camp. Take your furs. He is a thief, a robber, a
bad man. All that,” sweeping his hand towards Raven's goods, “no good.
This,” kicking the keg, “bad. Kill you.”
These words they could not entirely understand, but his gestures were
sufficiently eloquent and significant. There was an ugly gleam in
Raven's eyes and an ugly curl to his thin lips, but he only smiled.
“Come,” he said, waving his hand toward the furs, “take them away. Tell
them we don't want to trade, Little Thunder.” He pulled out his flask,
slowly took a drink, and passed it to Little Thunder, who greedily
followed his example. “Tell them we don't want to trade at all,”
insisted Raven.
Little Thunder volubly explained the trader's wishes.
“Good-bye,” said Raven, offering his hand to White Cloud. “Good
friends,” he added, once more passing him his flask.
“Don't!” said Cameron, laying his hand again upon the Indian's arm. For
a single instant White Cloud paused.
“Huh!” grunted Little Thunder in contempt. “Big chief scared.”
Quickly the Stony shook off Cameron's hand, seized the flask and,
putting it to his lips, drained it dry.
“Come,” said Cameron to the other Stony. “Come with me.”
Raven uttered a warning word to Little Thunder. The Indians stood for
some moments uncertain, their heads bowed upon their breasts. Then White
Cloud, throwing back his head and looking Cameron full in the face,
said--“Good man. Good man. Me no go.”
“Then I go alone,” cried Cameron, springing off into the darkness.
As he turned his foot caught the pile of wood brought for the fire.
He tripped and stumbled almost to the ground. Before he could recover
himself Little Thunder, swift as a wildcat, leaped upon his back with
his ever-ready knife in his upraised hand, but before he could strike,
Cameron had turned himself and throwing the Indian off had struggled to
his feet.
“Hold there!” cried Raven with a terrible oath, flinging himself upon
the struggling pair.
A moment or two the Stonies hesitated, then they too seized Cameron and
between them all they bore him fighting to the ground.
“Keep back! Keep back!” cried Raven in a terrible voice to Little
Thunder, who, knife in hand, was dancing round, seeking an opportunity
to strike. “Will you lie still, or shall I knock your head in?” said
Raven to Cameron through his clenched teeth, with one hand on his throat
and the other poising a revolver over his head. Cameron gave up the
struggle.
“Speak and quick!” cried Raven, his face working with passion, his voice
thick and husky, his breath coming in quick gasps from the fury that
possessed him.
“All right,” said Cameron. “Let me up. You have beaten me this time.”
Raven sprang to his feet.
“Let him up!” he said. “Now, then, Cameron, give me your word you won't
try to escape.”
“No, I will not! I'll see you hanged first,” said Cameron.
Raven deliberately drew his pistol and said slowly:
“I have saved your life twice already, but the time is past for any more
trifling. Now you've got to take it.”
At this Little Thunder spoke a word, pointing toward the camp of the
Stonies. Raven hesitated, then with an oath he strode toward Cameron and
thrusting his pistol in his face said in tones of cold and concentrated
rage:
“Listen to me, you fool! Your life is hanging by a hair trigger that
goes off with a feather touch. I give you one more chance. Move hand or
foot and the bullet in this gun will pass neatly through your eye. So
help me God Almighty!”
He spoke to Little Thunder, still keeping Cameron covered with his gun.
The Indian slipped quietly behind Cameron and swiftly threw a line over
his shoulders and, drawing it tight, bound his arms to his side. Again
and again he repeated this operation till Cameron stood swathed in the
coils of the rope like a mummy, inwardly raging, not so much at his
captor, but at himself and his stupid bungling of his break for liberty.
His helpless and absurd appearance seemed to restore Raven's good
humour.
“Now, then,” he said, turning to the Stonies and resuming his careless
air, “we will finish our little business. Sit down, Mr. Cameron,” he
continued, with a pleasant smile. “It may be less dignified, but it is
much more comfortable.”
Once more he took out his flask and passed it round, forgetting to take
it back from his Indian visitors, who continued to drink from it in
turn.
“Listen,” he said. “I give you all you see here for your furs and a pony
to pack them. That is my last word. Quick, yes or no? Tell them no more
trifling, Little Thunder. The moon is high. We start in ten minutes.”
There was no further haggling. The Indians seemed to recognise that the
time for that was past. After a brief consultation they grunted their
acceptance and proceeded to pack up their goods, but with no good will.
More vividly than any in the company they realised the immensity of the
fraud that was being perpetrated upon them. They were being robbed of
their whole winter's kill and that of some of their friends as well,
but they were helpless in the grip of their mad passion for the trader's
fire-water. Disgusted with themselves and filled with black rage against
the man who had so pitilessly stripped them bare of the profits of a
year's toil and privation, how gladly would they have put their knives
into his back, but they knew his sort by only too bitter experience and
they knew that at his hands they need expect no pity.
“Here,” cried Raven, observing their black looks. “A present for my
brothers.” He handed them each a roll of tobacco. “And a present for
their squaws,” adding a scarlet blanket apiece to their pack.
Without a word of thanks they took the gifts and, loading their stuff
upon their remaining pony, disappeared down the trail.
“Now, Little Thunder, let's get out of this, for once their old man
finds out he will be hot foot on our trail.”
With furious haste they fell to their packing. Cameron stood aghast at
the amazing swiftness and dexterity with which the packs were roped and
loaded. When all was complete the trader turned to Cameron in gay good
humour.
“Now, Mr. Cameron, will you go passenger or freight?” Cameron made no
reply. “In other words, shall we pack you on your pony or will you ride
like a gentleman, giving me your word not to attempt to escape? Time
presses, so answer quick! Give me twenty-four hours. Give me your word
for twenty-four hours, after which you can go when you like.”
“I agree,” said Cameron shortly.
“Cut him loose, Little Thunder.” Little Thunder hesitated. “Quick,
you fool! Cut him loose. I know a gentleman when I see him. He is tied
tighter than with ropes.”
“It is a great pity,” he continued, addressing Cameron in a pleasant
conversational tone as they rode down the trail together, “that you
should have made an ass of yourself for those brutes. Bah! What odds?
Old Macdougall or some one else would get their stuff sooner or later.
Why not I? Come, cheer up. You are jolly well out of it, for, God knows,
you may live to look death in the face many a time, but never while
you live will you be so near touching the old sport as you were a few
minutes ago. Why I have interfered to save you these three times blessed
if I know! Many a man's bones have been picked by the coyotes in these
hills for a fraction of the provocation you have given me, not to speak
of Little Thunder, who is properly thirsting for your blood. But take
advice from me,” here he leaned over towards Cameron and touched him on
the shoulder, while his voice took a sterner tone, “don't venture on any
further liberties with him.”
Suddenly Cameron's rage blazed forth.
“Now perhaps you will listen to me,” he said in a voice thrilling with
passion. “First of all, keep your hands off me. As for your comrade and
partner in crime, I fear him no more than I would a dog and like a dog
I shall treat him if he dares to attack me again. As for you, you are a
coward and a cad. You have me at a disadvantage. But put down your guns
and fight me on equal terms, and I will make you beg for your life!”
There was a gleam of amused admiration in Raven's eyes.
“By Jove! It would be a pretty fight, I do believe, and one I should
greatly enjoy. At present, however, time is pressing and therefore that
pleasure we must postpone. Meantime I promise you that when it comes it
will be on equal terms.”
“I ask no more,” said Cameron.
There was no further conversation, for Raven appeared intent on putting
as large a space as possible between himself and the camp of the
Stonies. The discovery of the fraud he knew would be inevitable and he
knew, too, that George Macdougall was not the man to allow his flock to
be fleeced with impunity.
So before the grey light of morning began to steal over the mountaintops
Raven, with his bunch of ponies and his loot, was many miles forward
on his journey. But the endurance even of bronchos and cayuses has its
limit, and their desperate condition from hunger and fatigue rendered
food and rest imperative.
The sun was fully up when Raven ordered a halt, and in a sunny valley,
deep with grass, unsaddling the wearied animals, he turned them loose to
feed and rest. Apparently careless of danger and highly contented
with their night's achievement, he and his Indian partner abandoned
themselves to sleep. Cameron, too, though his indignation and chagrin
prevented sleep for a time, was finally forced to yield to the genial
influences of the warm sun and the languid airs of the spring day, and,
firmly resolving to keep awake, he fell into dreamless slumber.
The sun was riding high noon when he was awakened by a hand upon his
arm. It was Raven.
“Hush!” he said. “Not a word. Mount and quick!”
Looking about Cameron observed that the pack horses were ready loaded
and Raven standing by his broncho ready to mount. Little Thunder was
nowhere to be seen.
“What's up?” said Cameron.
For answer Raven pointed up the long sloping trail down which they had
come. There three horsemen could be seen riding hard, but still distant
more than half a mile.
“Saw them three miles away, luckily enough,” said Raven.
“Where's Little Thunder?” enquired Cameron.
“Oh, rounding up the bunch,” answered Raven carelessly, waving his hand
toward the valley. “Those men are coming some,” he added, swinging into
his saddle.
As he spoke a rifle shot shattered the stillness of the valley. The
first of the riders threw up his hands, clutched wildly at the vacant
air and pitched headlong out of the saddle. “Good God! What's that?”
gasped Cameron. The other two wheeled in their course. Before they could
turn a second shot rang out and another of the riders fell upon his
horse's neck, clung there for a moment, then gently slid to the ground.
The third, throwing himself over the side of his pony, rode back for
dear life.
A third and a fourth shot were heard, but the fleeing rider escaped
unhurt.
“What does that mean?” again asked Cameron, weak and sick with horror.
“Mount!” yelled Raven with a terrible oath and flourishing a revolver
in his hand. “Mount quick!” His face was pale, his eyes burned with a
fierce glare, while his voice rang with the blast of a bugle.
“Lead those pack horses down that trail!” he yelled, thrusting the line
into Cameron's hand. “Quick, I tell you!”
“Crack-crack!” Twice a bullet sang savagely past Cameron's ears.
“Quicker!” shouted Raven, circling round the bunch of ponies with wild
cries and oaths like a man gone mad. Again and again the revolver spat
wickedly and here and there a pony plunged recklessly forward, nicked
in the ear by one of those venomous singing pellets. Helpless to
defend himself and expecting every moment to feel the sting of a bullet
somewhere in his body, Cameron hurried his pony with all his might down
the trail, dragging the pack animals after him. In huddled confusion the
terrified brutes followed after him in a mad rush, for hard upon their
rear, like a beast devil-possessed, Nighthawk pressed, biting, kicking,
squealing, to the accompaniment of his rider's oaths and yells and
pistol shots. Down the long sloping trail to the very end of the valley
the mad rush continued. There the ascent checked the fury of the speed
and forced a quieter pace. But through the afternoon there was no
weakening of the pressure from the rear till the evening shadows and the
frequent falling of the worn-out beasts forced a slackening of the pace
and finally a halt.
Sick with horror and loathing, Cameron dismounted and unsaddled his
broncho. He had hardly finished this operation when Little Thunder
rode up upon a strange pony, leading a beautiful white broncho behind.
Cameron could not repress an exclamation of disgust as the Indian drew
near him.
“Beautiful beast that,” said Raven carelessly, pointing to the white
pony.
Cameron turned his eyes upon the pony and stood transfixed with horror.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “Look at that!” Across the beautiful white
shoulders and reaching down clear to the fetlock there ran a broad
stain, dull red and horrible. Then through his teeth, hard clenched
together, these words came forth: “Some day, by God's help, I shall wipe
out that stain.”
The trader shrugged his shoulders carelessly, but made no reply.