JOHN KARS
Seven months of dreadful winter had passed. Seven months since the
mutilated body of Allan Mowbray had been packed home by dog-train to
its last resting place within the storm-swept Fort he had labored so
hard to serve. It was the open season again. That joyous season of
the annual awakening of the northern world from its nightmare of stress
and storm, a nightmare which drives human vitality down to the very
limit of its mental and physical endurance.
Father José and Ailsa Mowbray had been absent from the post for the
last three months of the winter. Their return from Leaping Horse, the
golden heart of the northern wild, had occurred at the moment when the
ice-pack had vanished from the rivers, and the mud-sodden trail had
begun to harden under the brisk, drying winds of spring. They had made
the return journey at the earliest moment, before the summer movements
of the glacial fields had converted river and trail into a constant
danger for the unwary.
Allan Mowbray had left his affairs in Father José's hands. They were
as simple and straight as a simple man could make them. The will had
contained no mention of his partner, Murray's name, except in the way
of thanks. To the little priest he had confided the care of his
bereaved family. And it was obvious, from the wording of his will,
that the burden thus imposed upon his lifelong friend had been
willingly undertaken.
His wishes were clear, concise. All his property, all his business
interests were for his wife. Apart from an expressed desire that Alec
should be given a salaried appointment in the work of the post during
his mother's lifetime, and that at her death the boy should inherit,
unconditionally, her share of the business, and the making of a
monetary provision for his daughter, Jessie, the disposal of his
worldly goods was quite unconditional.
Father José had known the contents of the will beforehand. In fact, he
had helped his old friend in his decisions. Nor had Alec's position
been decided upon without his advice. These two men understood the boy
too well to chance helping to spoil his life by an ample, unearned
provision. They knew the weak streak in his character, and had decided
to give him a chance, by the process of time, to obtain that balance
which might befit him for the responsibility of a big commercial
enterprise.
When Murray learned the position of affairs he offered no comment.
Without demur he concurred in every proposition set before him by
Father José. He rendered the little man every assistance in his power
in the work which had been so suddenly thrust upon his shoulders.
So it was that more than one-half of the winter was passed in delving
into the accounts of the enterprise Allan and his partner had built up,
while the other, the second half, was spent by Mrs. Mowbray and Father
José at Leaping Horse, where the ponderous legal machinery was set in
motion for the final settlement of the estate.
For Father José the work was not without its compensations. His grief
at Allan's dreadful end had been almost overwhelming, and the work in
which he found himself involved had come as a help at the moment it was
most needed. Then there was Ailsa, and Jessie, and Alec. His work
helped to keep him from becoming a daily witness of their terrible
distress. Furthermore, there were surprises for him in the pages of
the great ledgers at the Fort. Surprises of such a nature that he
began to wonder if he were still living in the days of miracles, or if
he were simply the victim of hallucination.
He found that Allan was rich, rich beyond his most exaggerated dreams.
He found that this obscure fur post carried on a wealth of trade which
might have been the envy of a corporation a hundred times its size. He
found that for years a stream of wealth had been pouring into the
coffers at the post in an ever-growing tide. He found that
seven-tenths of it was Allan's, and that Murray McTavish considered
himself an amply prosperous man on the remaining three-tenths.
Where did it all come from? How did it come about? He expressed no
wonder to anybody. He gave no outward sign of his astonishment. There
was a secret. There must be a secret. But the books yielded up no
secret. Only the broad increasing tide of a trade which coincided with
the results. But he felt for all their simple, indisputable figures,
they concealed in their pages a cleverly hidden secret, a profound
secret, which must alone have been shared by the partners, and possibly
Ailsa Mowbray. Allan Mowbray's fortune, apart from the business,
closely approximated half a million dollars. It was incredible. It
was so stupendous as to leave the simple little priest quite
overwhelmed.
However, with due regard for his friendship, he spared himself nothing.
Nothing was neglected. Nothing was left undone in his stewardship.
And so, within seven months of Allan's disastrous end, he found himself
once more free to turn to the simple cares of the living in his
administration of the Mission on Snake River, which was the sum total
of his life's ambition and work.
His duty to the dead was done. And it seemed to his plain thinking
mind that the episode should have been closed forever. But it was not.
Moreover, he knew it was not. How he knew was by no means clear.
Somehow he felt that the end was far off, somewhere in the dim future.
Somehow he felt that he was only at the beginning of things. A secret
lay concealed under his friend's great wealth, and the thought of it
haunted him. It warned him, too, and left him pondering deeply.
However, he did not talk, not even to his friend's widow.
The round form of Murray McTavish filled the office chair to
overflowing. For a man of his energy and capacity, for a man so
perfectly equipped, mentally, and in spirit, for the fierce battle of
the northern latitudes, it was a grotesque freak of Nature that his
form, so literally corpulent, should be so inadequate. However, there
it was. And Nature, seeming to realize the anachronism, had done her
best to repair her blunder. If he were laboring under a superfluity of
adipose, she had equipped him with muscles of steel and lungs of
tremendous expansion, a fierce courage, and nerves of a tempering such
as she rarely bestowed.
He was smoking a strong cigar and reading a letter in a decided
handwriting. It was a man's letter, and it was of a business nature.
Yet though it entailed profit for its recipient it seemed to inspire no
satisfaction.
The big eyes were a shade wider than usual. Their glowing depths
burned more fiercely. He was stirred, and the secret of his feelings
lay in the signature at the end of the letter. It was a signature that
Murray McTavish disliked.
"John Kars," he muttered aloud.
There was no friendliness in his tone. There was no friendliness in
the eyes which were raised from the letter and turned on the deep-set
window overlooking the open gates beyond.
For some silent moments he sat there thinking deeply. He continued to
smoke, his gaze abstractedly fixed upon the blue film which floated
before it upon the still air. Gradually the dislike seemed to pass out
of his eyes. The fire in them to die down. Something almost like a
smile replaced it, a smile for which his face was so perfect a setting.
But his smile would have been difficult to describe. Perhaps it was
one of pleasure. Perhaps it was touched with irony. Perhaps, even, it
was the smile, the dangerous smile of a man who is fiercely resentful.
It was a curiosity in Murray that his smile could at any time be
interpreted into an expression of any one of the emotions.
But suddenly there came an interruption. In a moment his abstraction
was banished. He sprang alertly from his chair and moved to the door
which he held open. He had seen the handsome figure of Ailsa Mowbray
pass his window. Now she entered the office in response to his silent
invitation. She took the chair which always stood ready before a
second desk. It was the desk which had been Allan Mowbray's, and which
now was used by his son.
"I've come to talk about Alec," the mother said, turning her chair
about, and facing the man who was once more at his desk.
"Sure." The man nodded. His smile had vanished. His look was all
concern. He knew, none better than he, that Alec must be discussed
between them.
Ailsa Mowbray had aged in the seven months since her husband's death.
She had aged considerably. Her spirit, her courage, were undiminished,
but the years had at last levied the toll which a happy wifehood had
denied them. Nor was Murray unobservant of these things. His partner
in the fortunes of Fort Mowbray was an old woman.
"There's difficulty," the mother went on, her handsome eyes averting
their gaze towards the window. "Allan didn't reckon on the boy when he
said he should have a position right here."
Murray shook his head.
"No," he said. "Guess that desk's been closed down since the season
opened. He's brought in half a hundred pelts to his own gun, and
guesses he's carrying on his father's work." There was a biting irony
in the man's tone.
Ailsa Mowbray sighed.
"He doesn't seem to like settling to the work here."
It was some moments before Murray replied. His big eyes were deeply
reflective. The fire in their depths seemed to come and go under
varying emotions. His eyes were at all times expressive, but their
expressions could rarely be read aright.
"He's troubled with youth, ma'am," he said, as though at last arrived
at a definite conclusion, "and he needs to get shut of it before he can
be of use to himself, or--to us. You'll excuse me if I talk plain.
I've got to talk plain, right here and now. Maybe it hasn't occurred
to either of us before just what it means to our enterprise Allan being
gone. It means a mighty big heap, so almighty big I can only just see
over the top. I take it you'll get me when I say this thing can't be
run by a woman. It needs to be run by a man, and, seeing Alec don't
figger to set around in this store, I've got to do most of it--with
your help. Y'see, ma'am, there's just two sides to this proposition.
Either we run it together, or you sell out to me. Anyway, I'm not
selling. I'll take it you'll say we run it together. Good. Then it's
up to me to do the man's work, while you, I guess, won't have forgotten
the work you had to do before I came. If you feel like fixing things
that way I guess we can make good till this boy, Alec, forgets he's a
kid, and we can hand him all Allan didn't choose to hand him during his
life. Get me? Meanwhile we're going to help the boy get over his
youth by letting him get his nose outside this region, and see a live
city where things happen plenty, and money buys a good time. That way
we'll bridge over what looks like a pretty awkward time. I take up the
work where Allan quit it, and you--well, it's all here same as it was
before I got around. I want you to feel I figger Allan left me with a
trust which I'm mighty glad to fulfil. He let me in on the ground
floor of this thing, and I don't forget it. I want to do all I know to
fix it right for those he left behind him. Maybe you'll find me rough
sometimes, maybe I don't happen to have a patience like old Job. But
I'm going to put things through, same as I know Allan would have had
them."
The frankness of the man was completely convincing. Ailsa expanded
under the warm kindliness of his tone in a manner which surprised even
herself. Hitherto this man had never appealed to her. She knew her
husband's regard for him. She had always seen in him an astute man of
business, with a strength of purpose and capacity always to be relied
upon. But the sentiments he now expressed were surprising, and came as
a welcome display such as she would never have expected.
"You are good to us, Murray," she said gratefully. "Maybe it won't
sound gracious, but Allan always told me I could rely on you at all
times. You've never given me reason to doubt it. But I hadn't thought
to hear you talk that way. I'm real glad we had this talk. I'm real
glad I came. I don't just know how to thank you."
"Don't you try, ma'am," was the man's dry response. "Guess I've yet
got to show you I can make my talk good before you need to think
thanks. And, anyway, maybe the thanks'll need to come from me before
we're through."
He picked up the letter on the desk before him, and glanced at it.
Then he flung it aside. Ailsa Mowbray waited for him to go on. But as
he gave no further sign she was forced to a question.
"I don't understand," she said at last. "How do you mean?"
Murray laughed. It was the easy, ready laugh the woman was accustomed
to.
"There's some things that aren't easy to put into words. Not even to a
mother." His eyes had become serious again. "There's some things that
always make a feller feel foolish--when you put 'em into words."
The mother's thought darted at once to the only possible interpretation
of his preamble. Her woman's instinct was alert. She waited.
"Maybe it's not the time to talk of these things, ma'am. But--but it's
mighty difficult to figger such time when it comes along. I've got a
letter here makes me want to holler 'help.' It's from a feller we all
know, and most of us like well enough. For me, I'm scared of him.
Scared to death. He's the only man I've ever felt that way towards in
my life."
His words were accompanied by another laugh so ringing that Ailsa
Mowbray was forced to a smile at his care-free way of stating his fears.
"Your terror's most alarming," she said comfortably. "Will you tell me
of it?"
"Sure." Murray picked up the letter again and stared at it. "Have you
got any feller fixed in your mind you're yearning for your daughter
Jessie to marry?"
The question was abrupt, startling. And somehow to Ailsa Mowbray it
was as though a fierce winter blast had suddenly descended upon her
heart.
"I--don't think I'd thought about it--seriously," the mother replied
after a pause.
Murray swung about and faced her. His eyes were serious. There could
be no mistaking his earnestness.
"I can't figger how you're going to take what I've got to say, ma'am.
I said the 'thanks' might be all due from me, before we're through. I
don't know. Anyway, I guess I need to get busy right away in the way
it seems to me best."
"You want to marry--Jessie?"
The mother's question came without any enthusiasm. There was even
coldness in it.
"More than anything in the world, ma'am."
The sincerity of the man was in every line of his face. It shone in
the burning depths of his eyes. It rang in the vibrant tones of his
voice.
For a moment the mother glanced about her rather helplessly. Then she
gathered her faculties with an effort.
"Have--have you asked her?"
"No, ma'am."
Ailsa Mowbray further added a helpless gesture with her hands. It
seemed to be the cue the man was awaiting.
"No, ma'am," he reiterated. "I'd have spoken months ago, but--for the
things that's happened. Maybe you won't just get it when I say that
with Allan around the position was clear as day. It was up to me to
leave her folks till I'd asked her. Now it's different. Jessie has no
father behind her. Only her mother. And her mother has no husband
behind her to help her figger her daughter's future right. Now I come
to you, ma'am. Guess I'm a plain man more ways than one. I'm just
thirty-five. I've a goodish stake in this proposition of ours, and can
give your daughter all she needs of the world's goods. I love her, and
want her bad, ma'am. If she'll marry me, why, I'll just do all I know
to make her happy."
The appeal was full of simple, straightforward honesty. There could be
no denying it. Even its crudity was all in its favor. But all this
passed Ailsa Mowbray completely by.
"What made you choose this moment?" she questioned, avoiding any direct
answer.
Murray laughed. It was a laugh which hid his real feelings. He held
up the letter.
"John Kars is coming along up."
"And so you spoke--before he came."
"Sure." Suddenly Murray flung the letter on the desk in a fashion that
said more than words. "I'm scared of John Kars, ma'am, because I want
to marry your daughter. I'm no coward. But I know myself, and I know
him. Here am I ready to meet John Kars, or a dozen of his kind, in any
play known to man, except rivalry for a woman. He's got them all where
he wants them from the jumping off mark. It's only natural, too. Look
at him. If he'd stepped out of the picture frame of the Greek Gods he
couldn't have a better window dressing. He's everything a woman ever
dreamed of in a man. He's all this country demands in its battles.
Then take a peek at me. You'll find a feller cussed to death with a
figure that's an insult to a prime hog. What's inside don't figger a
cent. The woman don't look beyond the face and figure, and the
capacity to do. Maybe I can do all John Kars can do. But when it
comes to face and figure, it's not a race. No, ma'am, it's a
procession. And I'm taking his dust all the time."
"Do you think Jessie is--likes John Kars?" The mother's question came
thoughtfully. To Murray it was evident the direction in which she was
leaning.
"She'd need to be a crazy woman if she didn't," he retorted bluntly.
Then he rose from his seat, and moved over to the window. He stood
gazing out of it. Ailsa Mowbray's eyes followed his movements. They
regarded him closely, and she thought of his own description of
himself. Yes, he was not beautiful. Wholesome, strong, capable. But
he was fat--so fat. A shortish, tubby man whose figure added ten years
to his age.
But with his face towards the window, his strong tones came back to
her, and held her whole attention.
"Yes, ma'am. She likes him. But I don't guess it's more than
that--yet. Maybe it would never become more if you discouraged it. I
could even think she'd forget to remember the queer figure I cut in the
eyes of a woman--if it suited you to tell her diff'rent. It seems a
pretty mean proposition for a feller to have to hand his love interests
over to another, even when it's the girl's mother. But whatever I can
do in the affairs of the life about us, whatever my ability, ma'am, to
put through the business side of our affairs, I guess I'm mighty short
winded in the race for a woman's love, and--know it. Say, you guessed
just now you owed me thanks for the things I figger to do for you. I'd
say if you'd feel like helping me to marry Jessie I'd owe you more
thanks on the balance than I can ever hope to pay off."
He abruptly turned back from the window. He stepped quickly towards
her, his movements surprising in their vigor. He looked down into the
woman's handsome, but now lined, face, and his eyes shone with a
burning fire tremendously compelling.
Ailsa felt the influence he wielded. She read the strength of the
man's emotion. She knew that for once she was being permitted a sight
of the man behind his mask of smiling serenity. Nor were these things
without effect. Furthermore, her own sense warned her that in the best
interests of their affairs, of the girl, herself, Murray McTavish was
certainly the husband for Jessie. But even so there was more than
reluctance. There was desperate distaste. The romantic vision of John
Kars, the wealthiest mine owner in Leaping Horse, the perfect
adventurer of the northern trail, rose before her eyes, and made her
hesitate. In the end, however, she thrust it aside and rose from her
chair, and held out her hand.
"I can promise no result," she said seriously, and she knew it was
subterfuge, "I'll do my best. Anyway, your cause shan't suffer at my
hands. Will that do?"
Murray McTavish took her warm hand in both of his. He held it tightly
for a few seconds.
"My thanks begin from now, ma'am," he said. "I guess they'll go right
on to--the end."